De petite souris a' monsieur chat
by pietraserena
Summary: A long, meandering tale of blackmail, obligation, redemption, friendship, and revenge revolving around a ballet rat named Meg, a supposedly dead Opera Ghost, and the enigmatic but prosperous Daroga . Primarily based on the book with touches from the musical plus artistic liberties on back stories.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

**The One and Only Author's Note:** Unless it becomes absolutely necessary, I will be refraining from commenting on each chapter. I hope to conclude the story with a wrap-up notes chapter, but if this proves impossible, I'll go through and update the chapters as needed with A/Ns.

Otherwise, I'm following the characterizations of Raoul, Christine, Meg, and the Daroga from Leroux's work (i.e. Meg has dark hair, Christine is blond). Erik is closer to Andrew Lloyd's Webber's musical adaptation in physical appearance only. As far as setting, I made some obvious changes to Erik's lair. Also, let me preface, I have not read Susan Kay's _Phantom_; any similarities (if there are any) are pure coincidence.

All in all, this will be a slow story mainly between Erik and Meg. Not quite a romance but more than a friendship. Christine makes a few appearances early on and later. I will do my best to not make her a simpering idiot, but a rather complex individual. The same can be said of all the main characters. Happy reading! – p.s. (edited & updated 4/17/13)

* * *

******_De petite souris a monsieur chat_: **Chapter 1

**January 1882: Beneath the Opera House**

Erik waited in the darkness as the mob found their way into his lair. He listened to the destruction of his home and prayed that none of the fools found him by accident. Sitting among his nonperishable food stuffs in his small cellar, he huffed at his thoughts of prayer. There was no God. Not in his world. In the early days of his life at the Palais Garnier, he had planned for the inevitable discovery of his home. His cellar had two access points - a trapdoor underneath his throne and an actual door near his bedroom. He later added a final passageway that twisted its way to the catacombs underneath Paris, but he had sealed it out of paranoia.

Would he unseal it if the mob found him? Or would he simply give in to their anger, hate, and fear? He felt helpless and vulnerable; he hated himself for it. He, the great Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera, the most feared executioner in Persia, _le mort vivant_, was afraid of a mob.

Yet the fear and self-hate paled as he reflected on how he ended up in his dark, dank, cold cellar. She could have loved him if he hadn't murdered men and threatened... She had agreed to be his bride. _Him._ She did not despise his face or turn away in fear like so many others; she feared what lay inside his tortured heart. Christine, his angel, kissed him to save... _him_, and in that moment, Erik knew he was wrong. _You cannot force a woman to love you_, his inner voice sneered. _Have you learned nothing from the operas you've seen, the books you've read? Stupid Erik, ugly Erik. You didn't deserve her love. Not even her kindness! _ He bit his tongue to prevent an anguished cry from escaping his lips. Silently, he sobbed in the darkness as the remains of his heart withered in his chest.

Time passed. The chaotic sounds above him ceased. Voices faded from shouts to murmurs to nothing. He didn't care. Christine was gone. What was there left to live for? What had life ever given him but misery and pain? His tears had ceased coursing down his cheeks. Now his body was wracked with weariness from sobbing for so long and hard. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he asked the silence, "Why? Why should I go on living?"

When he woke again, he felt the gnawing pain of an empty stomach. He didn't care. He pushed himself off of the dirt floor and sat cross-legged in the darkness. _Dying of starvation, Erik? It's such a slow and painful way to die... There are faster means of banishing one's self from this mortal coil, _the voice offered.

"True... but it means I must leave here and risk being seen."

_They are gone. They believe you are dead._

"They may not. One may be waiting to ambush me."

_Please... These people are not the sultan's guard; they are Parisians!_

"Who invented the guillotine. A lovely contraption. They execute criminals with it now."

_That would be a more fitting way to go. Quick. Clean. Sophisticated. Efficient. Such an exquisite death befitting a child of France such as yourself._

"Agreed," Erik grunted in response to his inner voice. Dying by guillotine after a trial would be more acceptable for a man of his stature. But would they offer such release for a murderer?

_No, you would be paraded before the masses first! The bourgeoisie would pay pennies to see you rot in the Bastille. You would suffer more humiliation, more pity… and only then would you get the guillotine if you were lucky! There is always hard labor in the prison camps across the Atlantic._

"Send the Devil's Child to Devil's Island," Erik muttered and then laughed. The laugh grew from feeble giggles to maniacal laughter. He clenched his bare hands into fists so hard that he felt a wetness trickle between his fingers. A wracking sob of anguish shook his body.

_Control yourself... Devil's Island _would_ be a fitting place for you – no escape, no music, all beauty, and no hope._ _However_, _the authorities have to _find _you first in order to end your pathetic life._

In the darkness, he made his way to the stairs leading up to the cellar door. He tripped once and smacked his shin on the wooden boards. Cursing under his breath, he managed in his weakened state to push the heavy door open. His inner voice's laughter echoed in his skull painfully. The hallway was lit in a soft glow from the gas lamps lining the walls. He cringed and raised his hand to shield his blinded eyes. _So, they did not find this area of my home_, he thought to himself as he waited for his eyes to adjust. The fact the lamps were still lit surprised him even more. Granted, he had designed his home lights to be fed from a separate gas line from the lair, but he had suspected the worse.

_Always plan for the worst, don't you?_

He made his way to his bedroom to find it untouched. A small proud smile graced his lips.

_Smash and grab, typical mob… Not a thought among them. They underestimated the Opera Ghost… Such…_

"Fools," he choked out from a dry throat. He brushed a hand through his hair as he tried to chuckle. Instead a racking cough caught him and left him wheezing. When his breathing eased, Erik ran his hand over his face and felt the puckered and pulled skin. Vaguely, he remembered that his white mask lay upon his throne in the lair's main room.

_I would risk too much in retrieving it now… Let them have their trophy if they can't have my body._

Leaning against the wall of the hallway, Erik slowly made his way to his bedroom. The room was small with only a few pieces of furniture and his coffin for a bed. On one wall, an armoire held his personal items while on the opposite wall, a side table sat beside a basin and pitcher. A small armchair rested in a corner by the foot of his coffin bed. Carefully the Phantom eased himself over to the side table. A handful of masks of various colors and sizes rested there. Erik picked up the worn, black leather, half-mask and slipped it on. He fumbled with the leather ties for a moment before tying it securely in place. He paused looking at the small hand mirror.

_Why not see what you look like before you die?_

When he did lift it, he saw a hollowed man gazing back at him. Layers of dirt smeared the exposed side of his face. A faint tinge of rouge marred his bottom lip. Or what he thought was rouge. His bottom lip was tender from having bitten it to stifle his sobs. He set the mirror down gently. The back of his knuckles were skinned and caked in a mixture of dried blood and earth. He could only imagine how the rest of him looked – tired, hollow, bloody, sweaty, dirty, and broken.

For a moment, he lifted his head and tilted his ear in the direction of his lair. From behind the bookcase door and down the wood paneled hallway, he couldn't hear a sound. Why would someone be waiting? How would they know he had been hiding beneath their feet? He hesitated.

_I am a wanted man. I killed two men by my own hands... among others. _You_ would lie in wait to trap a fiend._

"I would... out of revenge..." he muttered to himself. Erik found himself moving down the hallway towards the hidden door. Fresh sweat broke out on his brow as he shuffled slowly forward. As he drew near, hope fluttered in his chest that perhaps his fears were unwarranted. Upon reaching the door, his knees buckled and he sunk to the floor.

_There is no one in my lair… No one waiting on the other side of the door. Not even the Persian. I can die peacefully with my broken heart, and the Persian will let Christine know… so she can return to bury me… I can die on _my _terms._

How long he sat on the floor by his hidden door, Erik did not know. He didn't know he had closed his eyes. The gas lamp flames shimmered softly giving the wood paneling a warm glow. _My home… Mine. My terms. _He numbly thought as he picked himself up and walked to his bedroom on shaky legs. Erik slumped into his padded black coffin with its satin lining. He was tired. Oh so tired of living.

* * *

The hunger pains came and went and had not come back. Past experiences had taught him as much. He welcomed the emptiness following the pain. The addition of a few drops of laudanum on his tongue helped the numbness in his heart and body immensely. Yet he felt listless, dull mentally. With effort, he pulled himself out of his coffin and trudged down the hallway. How long it took, he didn't know. He had lost track of time long ago. Without a moment's hesitation, Erik tripped the mechanism that made the door swing inward. _Consequences be damned, _he thought to himself sluggishly.

On well-oiled hinges, the book case door swung open easily in spite of its size and weight. Only the light from the hallway lit the lair. Yet what Erik saw made his heart break even more. His shadow stretched out before him as he walked into his "home." Only one of the gas lamps had a guttering flame; the others had been shut off so the lair didn't combust and burn down the Opera House above it. The single gas lamp was the only one to have its glass enclosure intact.

His eyes surveyed the room as they adjusted to the minimal light in the cavernous room. His desk had been turned into kindling. His piano had its massive front legs ripped out from underneath the keyboard. He did not know if the board and strings inside were still intact. A number of his books and sheet music lay in the hearth - partially burnt or simply ashes. Candles lay strewn on the Turkish rugs amid puddles of wax and burnt fibers. Shards of glass sparkled faintly in the soft light. The full length mirror from that night long ago had been smashed into a thousand pieces. The mannequin as well was gone. Only a puddle of fabric remained on the floor. Even the luxurious bed he had constructed for… _her… _had disappeared. Oddly enough, his gilded throne had only been hacked at with an axe. Chunks were missing, but the throne was repairable. _If they had tipped it over… they could have found me_, he realized with some clarity. His pristine white half-mask was nowhere to be seen. _Probably as evidence of my demise_, he thought to himself.

However, Erik sank to his knees as his gaze drifted to his dearest friend – his magnificent pipe organ. He heard a strangled cry and numbly realized it came from him. The pipes were dented; some bent at angles. A few of the smallest ones were completely missing. Even from his position in the room, he could tell knobs and ivories were gone. The bench had been hacked to pieces… and amid the wood kindling lay the monkey music box. Without its head and wide-eyed stare, with only a cymbal clad arm reaching out to him… the monkey was no longer a monkey but some deformed creature. Tears welled in his eyes and he held his head in his hands.

Eventually, Erik found his composure again. Feeling like Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill once more, he rose to his feet and took a few steps into his lair. A large black spot by the hearth caught his attention. Apparently the mob _had_ tried to burn down his lair. _What fools… _he thought. Thankfully Reason prevailed and the fire had been extinguished. Between the gas lamps and the hearth, the mob could have easily destroyed the Palais Garnier beyond all repair.

Erik's feet led him to the edge of the burn pile. He toed the burnt manuscripts, composition sheets, and books with his scuffed shoe. _My life's work… My personal effects… Everything that I called _mine_… Destroyed. _Something silver underneath some sheet music caught his eye. Crouching down, Erik gently lifted the fragile parchment and let out a strangled cry of anguish.

"How? How could I have forgotten about you?" he whispered as his fingers enclosed a small music box of silver and enamel. The music box fit easily in his hand, but its various shades of blue and green enamel had cracked. The silver edges were tarnished black from the heat and burning paper. Erik ran his thumb over the precious thing. He turned it over and noted the missing key. He felt a knot form in his throat and fresh tears blurred his vision. He wanted to scream, to rage at the fools who shattered his life… but he couldn't.

"You survived… yet again. After so much… but will I ever hear you sing again?" he choked out. Like a child, he sat on the floor cradling the music box in his hands and cried. His sobs echoed in his lair in the basement of the opera house. Because of his sorrow, he failed to hear the soft footsteps of a man approaching him. Erik caught himself when he opened his eyes to see the faint glow of candlelight illuminate him. He couldn't bring himself to look at the man who dared to enter his lair.

"Azrael..." said a familiar voice from the darkness. The Phantom tensed. Only one person called him by _that_ hideous name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: Chapter 2**

**February 1882: Beneath the Opera House**

"What do you want, Daroga?" he asked clutching the music box to his chest. His voice lacked the fire and strength it once had to burn intruders with fear. Erik could hear it for himself and he knew the Daroga could as well. His partner in crime, so to speak, had known him back in Persia when he worked for the Sultan. To find each other once more in Paris, France, was both auspicious and ominous. Thankfully their encounter and slow friendship had proven the former and not the latter.

"The Daily made reference to the flight of a young singer during the turmoil that befell the Palais Garnier following the first performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Like other curious onlookers, I came to see if such rumors were true," the Daroga replied conversationally as he squatted beside the devastated man. The Persian set something down between them. The faint scent of tangy cheese and warm yeast tickled his noise. Erik's stomach clenched painfully. _Did he plan on picnicking with _my _corpse?_ he thought grimly.

"Whispers of an 'Opera Ghost' terrorizing the young woman and her betrothed were heard," continued the Daroga as he pulled the cloth away to expose the bread and cheese in the basket. "Whispers of a _man_ and not a phantom lying dead in his lair by the lake beneath the opera house. Why, I thought to myself, had the mighty Azarel been laid low by his own folly?"

"Stop calling me _that_," the Phantom growled glancing up at the dark eyes and tanned skin of the Daroga. The Persian's thin eyebrows rose then fell as a smile emerged from behind the trimmed beard.

"But you _are_ Azrael, Erik," the Daroga said calmly spreading open his hands. "For you are not dead. You simply reap the fields so we may sow the seeds of life."

"What do you want Nadir?!" Erik shouted finally. He always hated the man's odd little proverbs and his insistence at times at calling him the Angel of Death. "Did you come to gloat over me? Come to finish the Sultan's order? Will you drag me back there so I can be buried alive?"

"No, no. You jump to conclusions, my friend," Nadir ignored Erik's prodding anger. "Like I said, I came to see if you were dead. Remember? You made me promise to see you buried beside the lake." He feared the monster, but in his current condition, Erik was lucky to still be sane and alive. Nadir waited patiently for Erik to speak, but the silenced dragged out painfully. Finally he sighed. "You gave her a choice, yes?"

"Yes," he whispered. "She… she chose me. To be my bride… but…"

"You let her go," the Persian finished for him. Erik made a noise in his throat between a groan and a sob.

"She kissed me, Nadir. Willingly. Without hesitation. With love," Erik spoke in a rush. His red-rimmed eyes gazed up at the Persian. "I realized my folly…" Erik's gaze fell to the music box in his hand. "How could this monster keep her as a prisoner? In this dark cave with Death as her husband? A beautiful songbird in an iron cage… Shackled and never able to fly…"

The Persian was silent at Erik's heartfelt admission of guilt, remorse, and despair. He knew Erik would never apologize to Christine for his madness. However, Nadir did marvel at how the Angel of Darkness saw the parallels between his life and the one he nearly forced Christine to have. His gaze examined the Phantom. He was more gaunt than usual; his dark hair was plastered to his scalp. Dirt and blood to varying degrees covered his normally beautiful yet skeletal hands. In looking at the man's hands, the Daroga's eyes widened upon seeing the silver and enamel music box.

"You kept it?" Nadir breathed. Erik didn't reply but gave a single nod of his head. "You are a sentimental and egotistical creature, Erik."

Erik didn't reply. There was nothing to say. It was true; the music box had been a gift given to him by the Sultan's daughter for constructing a mechanical silver peacock. He didn't care that he had made the music box in the first place, or that it was returned as payment for a more challenging and difficult construct. He simply cared that he made the beautiful contraption and that the small music box inside played _La Marseillaise_. The little sultana had failed to recognize the song or understand its meaning. Without realizing it, the corner of Erik's mouth exposed to the world turned up slightly.

When he had fled Persia, it was the only item he owned small enough to travel with him undetected. He had dared much to return to his workshop to retrieve, but Erik had built the palace. He knew every door and secret passageway by heart. The music box, for some reason, mattered to him, and its music had promised hope during his travels back to Europe. It had given him strength along his journey, and it was proof of his abilities, how far he had come in his short life.

Lost in thought, Erik didn't notice Nadir reach out and grab the wine bottle. The loud pop of the cork coming out of the bottle made Erik jump. The starving Ghost stared at the Persian holding the open bottle of wine. His gaze drifted down to the loaf of fresh bread peeking out from underneath the calico fabric.

"You can fix it later, Erik," Nadir said quietly. He took a swig from the bottle and held it out to the Phantom. Erik blinked, reached out, and took it. After a swallow, he handed it back and set about attacking the loaf of bread. The Persian watched in silence. The normally immaculate Parisian had been reduced to a state similar to his Persian one. The smell of decay and sickness clung to him like a specter. The good side of Erik's face reminded Nadir of the mummified skulls he had seen at the Universelle Exposition. Nadir noted that the Phantom had gently laid the music box in his lap as he ate.

After a few minutes, the Persian began to dig into the upper pocket of his suit jacket. The movement caught Erik's attention. Nadir pulled out two wax-sealed letters as he spoke, "When I came yesterday, I found one of these letters upon your organ bench. Or what remains of the organ bench."

Erik snorted disdainfully. To say there was an organ bench left was absurd. The foot pedals seemed to be the only intact part of the instrument left. Nadir ignored Erik's noise of disagreement.

"By chance," Nadir continued. "I happened to inspect Box Five when I followed the crowds to gawk at the destruction. Luckily I found this second one hidden in the curtain folds before anyone else did."

"Read them to me," Erik commanded after swallowing the lump of cheese in his mouth.

Nadir tried to hide a smirk and opened the one with the green wax seal. "Monsieur, I believe I have something of yours. If you live, reply. I will keep your secret. Signed, M."

"Something of mine?" Erik asked stupidly. The bread was both sweet and tangy in his mouth. "How cryptic. Read the second."

_Erik, I highly doubt you are well and truly dead. If you are alive and can find it in your heart, please forgive me. I did not wish for you to die at the hands of the mob. Thank you for letting me choose my future and who I can share my love with. I will treasure your gift forever. I hope you find the love you seek and that someday you can forgive me. Your Angel, Christine.  
_

Erik felt his chest tighten painfully. He gripped the bread so hard that he sent crumbs everywhere. The damned woman felt guilt AND pity for him. His voice rose quickly into a thundering crescendo, "She wants forgiveness? After she stabbed me in the heart and left it bleeding on the floor?!"

Nadir give him a look. "There is a post script."

"Find the love I seek? I found it in her! I loved her! And what does she do? She runs to that... that... _boy_! And... I gave her away. She showed me love but... she did it out of fear. To save the life of another... Not out of love _for_ me. If she can't love me, who can?! Such a foolish, naïve woman! No one can love this monster… No one." Erik's voice fell into a diminuendo and he spoke the last two words in a breath. Nadir had tried to ignore his tirade by thumbing through the burnt pile of debris in front of Erik.

"Are you done, Azrael?"

Erik attempted to glare at Nadir, but the Persian shook the letter in his face. It smelled faintly of jasmine, Christine's preferred perfume. Nadir smiled at his obviously annoyed friend. The annoyed expression was better than the broken one from earlier. The worn mask and rumpled clothes gave Erik the appearance of a bad Harlequin down on his luck. The Ghost made a lame attempt to grab the letter, but Nadir easily kept it away from him. Erik's frustration grew. "Well?"

"The post script says," Nadir began as he felt Erik snatch the letter out of his hand. The Persian recited from memory, "I will attempt to return for the opening night of the next performance."

The Opera Ghost blinked in astonishment as the words sunk in. He stared at the letter in his trembling hand. The graceful script in black ink flowed easily from one letter into the next. It was Christine's handwriting. "She... She dares to return?"

"Or may not," Nadir pointed out. "With the Opera House in disarray thanks to your actions, the odds of a performance happening soon are slim." The Daroga lifted a hand and ticked off the problems one by one. "The managers are scared out of their wits and plan on selling the opera rather than repair it. The auditorium especially the pit orchestra and stage are in shambles. The _corps de ballet_ and singers have run home to their mothers or have found work in the gardens of Tullieres. Or worse. The Heavens above only know where the musicians went. A number of the stagehands refuse to step back into the building. A few stalwart souls remain either because they have nowhere to flee to or refuse to give up on their home. "

"Nonsense. They can afford to repair it," Erik muttered more to himself than the Persian. A plan blossomed in his mind_. If I can find the means to keep the managers from selling the opera... Or find out which of the managers wanted to back out, he could find an adequate replacement..._ It would be easy enough. He simply had to return to his hiding place beneath their offices to listen to their conversations. The fools had yet to determine how the Ghost knew everything; Erik highly doubted they would ever discover the trap door behind the desk.

With his substantial savings and Nadir's growing business, the Daroga could pose as a patron willing to see the Opera returned to its former glory. He could be Erik's second set of eyes and ears as he busied himself with repairing his home. Nadir would let the world believe the Opera Ghost was dead while the Phantom continued to pull their strings. Closing the known trapdoors and passageways would be his first task followed by repairing older, unused ones and creating new passages. The task would mean familiarizing himself with the building again and adapt with the changes. Erik eyed his battered organ and realized repairing his silenced friend would have to wait in order to revive the Opera itself. With the Palais Garnier repaired, a performance could take place and Christine would return to him.

Nadir set the folded letters into the basket and watched as Erik's demeanor changed from a defeated husk of a man to one with renewed hope. The Persian shook his head remembering a time long ago where the Angel of Darkness had provided a broken man with hope and a second life. _Our roles have switched… but have they really?_ the Daroga thought to himself. Erik, more of a ghost than ever, looked up at the Persian with the old gleam of Azrael in his good eye. _What machinations had the sultana's Angel of Death conjured up this time? Who will fall prey to his plans?  
_

"Daroga, I have a plan," he stated with a finality that made Nadir wish he hadn't ventured into the lair that day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: Chapter 3**

**February 1882: In the Streets of Paris**

Nadir mused to himself as he rode in a carriage home. Normally he watched the _flaneurs_ leaving their Habermassian homes to promenade in the gardens or the shop workers rush to the nearest beer gardens but not today. Rain drenched the uniform cobblestone streets. The steady, dripping rain kept the flowers of Parisian society from viewing the world from their wrought iron balconies. Only a few carriages and wayward businessmen ventured out into the spring rain.

The start of Erik's plan had been easy. Monsieur Firmin had already found a replacement for Monsieur André. The events of the Phantom's revenge had shaken the determined but foolish ex-manager to his core. Firmin had said André planned on retiring to the Bourgival area where his family had land. Nadir had a hunch that André wouldn't settle so close to Paris; he would run to the coast or another country. The replacement, a Monsieur Fornier, had been a former client for the two accountants-cum-theatre managers. When the Persian introduced himself to the new manager, he found the man cut from the same cloth as Firmin. The only difference was Fornier's desire as a _nouveae riche_ for acceptance from the upper echelons of the bourgeoisie. His energetic drive would prove useful in the forthcoming opera season.

Prior to the meeting, the Persian had sent out various letters of introduction to other patrons and members of the opera staff. Half were sent out to other patrons requesting funds for repairing and improving the opera house. The other half were sent to convince specific staff members to return. In particular, Madame Giry of the attendants and Monsieur Reyer along with the head stagehands, set designers, and costume department managers were asked to return. A number came without question. They had nowhere else to go; the pay at the opera house outshone any they could find anywhere else in Paris.

Once word spread that the opera would re-open, Nadir knew, all would come back. The young ballerinas, chorus members, seamstresses, and attendants would all return. However, there was a downside to this revival. All of the key players that drew an audience were… affected by recent events. The Opera Ghost's shadow still stretched over the lives of the prima ballerina La Sorelli, the soprano Carlotta, and Vicomtess Christine de Chagny neé Daaé. Carlotta refused outright to ever return to Paris, and word on the street said she had fled to her native Italy. La Sorelli had left to reside in the countryside to mourn the death of her lover, Louis-Phillippe, and had fallen ill shortly thereafter. Ubaldo Piangi, obviously, had ceased to be. _Such a paranoid lot_, Nadir thought to himself. Piangi's solemn funeral had been Carlotta's last public appearance in Paris according to M. André and Firmin. Only Christine remained… but her returning to perform regularly was impossible. Christine was still away on holiday with her husband, or so the Chagny household had informed Firmin upon his inquiry of the young soprano. Even though her letter promised she would return, Nadir knew her husband would not allow it. No man wanted his wife scantily clad and paraded before the masses for ridicule and critique. As a Vicomtesse, Christine de Chagny neé Daaé would never perform on stage ever again.

Nadir sighed and rubbed his eyes. Between his own business and implementing Erik's plan, he had developed a searing headache. Again the Sultan's assassin would risk everything. This time, it was his life to restore his "home" and win back the woman he let go out of love. Does a song bird return to a ruined nest in the spring? Nadir didn't know for sure, but that is what Erik planned for the Christine de Chagny neé Daae. The Persian really didn't care if the woman did return or not; what kept him up at night was the thought of this business venture failing. Erik's money came from **being** the Opera Ghost. Those savings were finite and would eventually leave Erik penniless if he didn't find some other meanings of acquiring an income. The Palais Garnier's offerings paled in comparison to the day's technological advancements and low humor for the masses. Opera was for the elite while the gardens were for the growing populace.

Add the changing tastes of the day with the numerous cafes and gardens placating, Nadir wondered if they would find replacements willing to leave the electrical limelight of the beer halls for a stodgy theater. They would have to search high and low across the continent for new singers. The Persian placed his hopes in Firmin rather than Fornier for finding adequate singers. Hopefully Firmin would consult Monsieur Reyer about the matter, but Nadir wondered if he held onto false hope. Perhaps he should be an active member in the search. As a silent benefactor, Nadir considered himself important in making the decision final. Suddenly, a thought struck him.

"Erik should compose a work... One fitting with the times. Something _avant-garde_, something impressionistic, exotic and quixotic. Perhaps a critique of modern society," Nadir muttered to himself as he fumbled for his pocket book. He always kept a few scraps of paper tucked inside along with a pencil. As the carriage rumbled and shook down the uniform brick streets of Paris, Nadir grinned as he jotted down his ideas.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 4**

**March 1882: Beneath the Opera House**

Erik busied himself with finishing the final tuning adjustments to his piano. He tapped the key several times as he twisted the peg ever so slightly. As the string reached the perfect pitch, he relaxed. He had spent the past week doing the dangerous task of closing the known passages and clearing out older ones for his personal use. When he had finished that arduous task, he had gathered, organized, and shelved what he could salvage of his home. Some things were destroyed completely and needed replacing; others were fixable. Repairing the piano's legs had been easy but attaining the necessary strings had required Nadir's aid. The piano would suffice for composing again. While he enjoyed the violin, it did not serve him well in creating multiple voices for an orchestra.

Erik glanced at the pipe organ as he pulled the tuning key away from the peg. Its pieces were spread lovingly on the stairs leading up to the empty space where the bench had been. He had the tools to repair minor dents and clean the pipes, but he needed new pipes, knobs, and keys. With his funds diverted to Nadir for their plan to revitalize the Opera House, Erik was limited in what he could do for his precious friend. The inability to play the many voiced machine made his heart ache.

"No more tears, Erik," he muttered to himself as he settled at the keyboard upon his makeshift bench and began to play a round of arpeggios. His fingers had lost some of their elasticity; his arms and wrists were a little stiff. The practice, however, felt good for his soul. He plunked out a melody that had niggled at his brain earlier in the day. He drew the song out and reveled in the sound echoing in his lair. Without realizing it, he found himself smiling. "Tomorrow we will start again."

As the piano fell silent at the song's end, Erik rose and surveyed his domain. A fire in the hearth warmed the small table, couch, and side chair. He had simply taken them from the storage rooms in the back of the Opera House; missing furniture would not be missed until much later or not at all. They made his lair… seem comfortable, less empty. With the destruction of the bed and other items for Christine, he had needed something to fill his home.

Already his repaired, oak desk held quills and ink along with a stack of fresh paper for composing. The small silver and enamel music box rested quietly on the corner as a daily reminder. His eyes glanced off it before memories re-surfaced and left him incapacitated again. His shelves held what books and composition sheets that had survived the fire, and he hoped that soon he would fill them again.

When his gaze fell upon his fireplace mantle, he admired the broken candles made useable again and black violin case propped open. Somehow the violin had survived; he had found it hidden underneath his broken desk when he had started to repair it. He had wept as he played it. Now, with a sense of humor, he had placed his violin upon the stone mantle. Next to it rested the small clock given to him by Nadir. Its quiet ticking and soft chimes on the hours and half-hours gave him some connection to the world above him. _He was sick of finding you asleep at 3pm in the afternoon, you dolt, _scolded his inner voice. _You were so accustomed to the opera's comings and goings that you neglected to realize it's not a satisfactory means of judging the length of a day.  
_

"I had no need of Time before," Erik replied to himself. "I do now." He flipped the carpet corner up and tripped the foot peg in the room's corner that forced the bookcase door to open. The door swung open slowly, smoothly, and silently. Along with his lair, he had dusted, swept, and polished the wood floors and panels until they gleamed. He sighed feeling at home as he walked down the polished hall towards his bedroom. He wanted to clean up before tackling another project... or play his precious violin. Over the month and a half, he had thanked whatever stray foot or hand from the mob that had sent the violin to its protected hiding place. Without music… he had nothing, and his precious violin was a lifeline for the first few weeks of his meager return to life. He would've truly despaired if he had not been able to play anything.

Pouring cold water into the small basin, he set the porcelain pitcher down with a thump. First the much mended linen work shirt came off. Then the stiff black leather, half mask. The water on his face felt wonderful. He let the water run in small rivulets down his neck and onto his chest as he reached for the cotton towel hanging on the side. His right fingertips felt the deformity on the right side of his face while the left felt normality. He pulled the towel down to stare at himself in the small, cracked mirror that hung over his wash basin. His right, blue eye rimmed in brown seemed to glow white in the shadows while his left green eye reminded him of meadows bathed in sunlight. Strands of his dark brown hair failed to cover his deformity and clung desperately to his forehead. _It's like a mismatched mold was used to make me. A monster on one side and a man on the other_, he mused to himself. The inner voice, for once, somberly added, _Two halves don't always make a perfect whole. _ He looked down at himself as he continued to wash using the towel to clean. The whip scars across his chest and shoulders were pale white against his ivory skin. The smaller ones were shrinking, but the larger ones that had cut deep were still apparent. Lifting his left arm, he analyzed the brand marks he had received on his backside. They, too, were angry looking but had mended over the years.

"I'm a map of torment," he reflected as he touched a sore spot on his right upper arm. The sore spot was left by a bullet along with its brother that grazed his leg when he had escaped the gypsy camp the first time. He had fled, bleeding and afraid that they would be able to track him. They didn't. He gave a wry smile. "I wasn't worth the money to track down. Who would want a singing, voice throwing monster when the world offers more horrific sights?"

No one answered his question. Erik shook his head and grimaced. He pressed his hand to his good eye while the other clutched the side of the basin stand. That night paled in comparison to the night he was branded for defying the Sultan's wishes. In turn, the night Christine broke his heart was worse than any wound he had received physically. Running his hand through his hair, he lifted his head to stare back at himself and he slowly smiled. Christine would return to him. He would show her he wasn't a monster, but a man worthy of her love and devotion.

He changed his clothes quickly and purposefully walked to his lair. He had lovingly placed the letter Nadir gave him in a place of prestige on his desk (once he had fixed his desk, of course). He read Christine's letter three times before realizing he had forgotten about the second letter. Picking it up, he examined it. The paper was thin and cheaply made. The wax seal was flat and revealed nothing of the individual. In contrast, Christine's seal had used a small initial stamp of a fluid C. The handwriting was small and neat in graphite rather than ink. The simple signature of M piqued his curiosity. This person obviously didn't want to be known if the letter was found. However, the identity of the person eluded Erik. He set the letter down on the desk and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Who are you, Monsieur M, and what do you have of mine?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 5**

**August 1882: The Opera House, Box 5 **

Christine and Raoul had returned from their short world tour to find the Academy announcing the grand re-opening of the Palais Garnier. She had had to beg Raoul to go. Even though he had been a patron along with his brother Louis-Phillippe, Raoul held little love for the place now. The terrors of the Ghost and his brother's death outweighed his discovery of Christine. To his surprise, Christine had requested Box Five from the new manager, a Monsieur Fornier. Eager to please, the portly fellow with graying hair and a mustache to rival Otto I von Bismarck happily introduced himself upon their arrival.

"Monsieur Vicomte la de Chagny! I am greatly honored that you and your beautiful wife would dare to join us on this great evening," Fornier said shaking Raoul's hand firmly.

"My wife, Christine, loves this place so much she cannot stay away for too long," Raoul said with a courtly smile. He presented Christine who was dressed in the height of fashion.

"My pleasure, Madame. I am sorry to have missed your performances when you were here," he offered after kissing her lace gloved hand. "My dream would be to convince you to sing once more upon our humble stage."

"Monsieur Fornier, that dream depends upon my husband," Christine said sweetly patting Raoul's arm. It was the truth and not some flippant comment.

"We have discussed the matter and come to no conclusion," Raoul offered. "I know how much she loves to sing, but... there are certain fears we both share about this place."

"Understandable from what Firmin has told me. I hope tonight's performance assuages any fears you may have," the large man said with a smile. A conspiratorial glint entered his eye as he leaned closer to them and placed his hand over his lips. "To be honest, Firmin and I have not received any letters. There has been no sign of _You Know Who_."

Raoul glanced at Christine and she gave a barely visible shrug. Her subtle mask of unconcern contrasted greatly with her husband's expressive features.

"If you'll excuse us, we'd like to take our seats before the performance begins," Christine said.

"Of course! If you wish to speak with me, I'll be in Box Four by the first act," Fornier spoke with a formality befitting a manager of the opera. He gave a short bow. "Monsieur Vicomte and Madame Vicomtesse." With that pleasantry out of the way, the large man approached a tall man with a dark complexion dressed in Middle Eastern clothing. Christine didn't recall seeing any Moorish individuals at the Opera before, but she had never enjoyed a performance from this side of the stage. Raoul patted her hand on his arm drawing her attention to him.

"Shall we, my dear?" he asked. The smile on his lips didn't reach his eyes. Together they made their way to Box Five, but numerous individuals and other patrons crossed their path. Many asked the same questions as Fornier to which the couple gave the same responses. The trite questions added salt into Raoul's wound, or at least, Christine hoped they did. They had argued that morning and again in the carriage ride from their townhouse to the opera. She knew that Raoul firmly believed Erik was not dead, and that to tempt him even to see a performance would be madness. Christine won the argument by pointing out Raoul was still a patron and should show his support by attending. Christine still felt bitter towards Raoul and his proposition from that morning. _He deserves it_, she thought to herself as they entered the box. Raoul hook a finger underneath his collar and tugged unconsciously.

"Come darling. There is nothing to fear," Christine said quietly. "He's gone, Raoul. He can't hurt us anymore."

Raoul shook his head and took her hands in his. "Christine, I'd rather not assume the man is alive _or _dead. If I learned anything from that experience, it is to be wary of my enemies."

The young man refused to believe the Phantom of the Opera had died in the lake. The investigators were searching the lake the day after the mob attack and found a body. They had kept it on ice until Raoul returned from his honeymoon with his wife. The face had been bludgeoned beyond recognition, but the man's hands were rough and course from years of hard work. The body on the table seemed tall enough, but when he read the doctor's notes, he noticed the man was shorter than him. Erik, the Angel of Music who wore gloves and towered over him, was not this man in the morgue. Back in the present, Raoul drew Christine into an embrace as he whispered his words.

"I love you and as long as you are here beside me, I have the strength to face him again."

"Oh, Raoul," she murmured with her head on his shoulder. Christine had come to terms with her husband's fear of Erik. He would forever be glancing behind him, looking for the Ghost at the opera house. During their worldly travels through Egypt, Italy, and Greece, Christine had come to her own conclusions about her husband and Erik. Raoul was a realist; he believed in concrete things that could be seen and touched. He marveled at human ability to exceed expectations, but he didn't understand the passion behind it. For Christine, she knew he appreciated her voice and ability to move people with her singing; she also knew he didn't understand that her singing was fueled by her passion for the song, the music, and at one time, the man who inspired her. Raoul had proven himself to be... less. He was a good lover (not that she had experience before him except hearsay and romances), but he didn't _romance _her. His attempts to make her feel desired were few and weak. Their love making focused on him and his pleasures, which were simple. Between their problems in the bedroom and Raoul's request for her to give up singing, Christine chaffed at the life she had chosen.

Raoul released her and kissed her on the cheek. She gave him a small smile and let him lead her to her seat. She watched him pull the box's curtain aside to reveal the brightly lit stage, its blood red velvet curtain, and the people who wanted to be seen. She sat a little straighter feeling the eyes of ambassadors, noblemen, well-to-do women, and other members of the bourgeoisie look at her without really seeing her. She smiled at the thought, _Ah, Paris_, _we are always performing for each other_.

As the Opera began and progressed into the first act, Christine noticed Raoul slowly relax and enjoy himself. By the end of the ballet in the second act, Raoul had let the onstage drama and comedy take him away from his reality. He rose and excused himself from the Box stating he needed to congratulate the managers on the new soprano. She smiled and nodded opting to stay and wait. He obviously had courage to leave the Box and roam the Opera house without her now. Casually she pulled her beautiful satin fan, a gift from Raoul's mother, open and began to fan herself. Trying to hide her nerves, she watched the audience and hoped _he_ would be alive. She had posted an ad to O.G. in the Daily the week she had arrived in Paris, but she had seen no response. Christine hadn't expected a response, but she had hoped for some sign upon returning to Paris. A return post, a letter, a red rose… Something.

Christine sighed inwardly. Then again, how could Erik have gotten anything to her outside the Opera House? A letter could've been found and then surely he would've been caught and executed for his crimes. Posting a response in the Daily signed "O.G." would've drawn attention as well. If Raoul had seen a red rose on their doorstep, he would have whisked her away to England or America. Tonight, at this moment, was her only chance to prove to herself, once and for all, if the music they shared was gone.

"I know you are here, Erik," she said behind her fan. No one from the Opera proper could see her lips move behind her fan. She felt her heart racing as the moments passed by silently. "Please, Erik, say something to let me know you are here."

"I am here, _mon ange_."

She exhaled the breath she had been holding. Her cheeks burned with a sudden flush. She wanted to cry out with a cheer of joy, but she contented herself with a smile. His deep melodic voice was hushed, confined to the Box so no one else could hear. She whispered, "I... have a small request, but you must make me a promise."

"Anything for you."

She paused and shifted in her seat. Her fan snapped closed and she pretended to lean over to adjust her skirts. "I wish to return... to sing as we once did. My life is lacking in song. Promise me that no harm will come to me or anyone else and that you will not force me to stay if I come to you willingly."

"I promise, Christine." She smiled hearing him speak her name. The thrill of conversing with him and the promise of song overrode her fears of Erik breaking his promise. Hope and joy went hand in hand at his promise; doubt and apprehension would come later in the night. For now, she was glad. She returned to gazing out over the crowd.

"Christine, there is a passageway you may take from the alley behind the opera house. I will send word to you as to how to reach it."

She waved at someone she knew in a box across the theater from her. Rising from her seat, she brushed the curtain beside her. She felt, or she thought she did, the brush of a gloved hand across her own as she walked to the box's door. She paused before the door and whispered.

"Do you forgive me?"

"Yes," Erik lied. Oh, he could forgive her; he did forgive her, but a part of him never would. His heart still ached at the betrayal and loss, at her promise sealed by a kiss and a wedding ring. Simply being near her as he was made his heart sing, but she had pricked him. Like a silver needle under his skin, it pressed in deeper the more he tried to pull it out. To have her here in his Box with her husband was both enraging and comforting. Earlier in the evening, he realized that he could not enjoy any performances from his normal seat in Box Five anymore. The Phantom was dead. He didn't need a box if he didn't exist. Ergo, he would no longer be able to watch the performances in comfort. While the extra money would benefit the Opera, he found the idea of letting go of _his _box galling. However, he took a small ounce of comfort as finding it occupied by his love this night. She appreciated and adored the same music as him. He was displeased that her husband was breathing the same air as her though. Erik waited on bated breath for Christine to speak.

Instead she breathed a sigh of relief, an angel's sigh in his sensitive ears. "Thank you, Erik."

With that, Christine rose and exited Box 5 to go find her husband. Her heart soared on wings she had thought had been bound. When she found Raoul, she smiled at him and kissed his cheek in a tender gesture. The man with Raoul laughed at the outward sign of affection between the newlyweds. The conversation continued about topics of the day and the man's latest business venture.

Back in the box, Erik reveled in the smell of her jasmine perfume lingering in the air. His beating heart felt near to bursting. _Mon dieu_... _she is really coming back to me. Willingly. She trusts me again. She _wants_ to sing again with me. My sweet, innocent angel... _The nagging thought that she may betray him again crept into his ecstatic revelry. As he left the box's hidden spot behind the curtains, he realized he didn't care if she did. To be near her again would satisfy him. _Let that... boy play his games. He'll fail once again. He already has lost. She is coming back to _me_._ He dropped through the second trap door and weaved his way through the underground basements.

"Just one last time, that's all I ask, and then I will go willingly to my death," he whispered to himself as he entered the passageway leading down to his lair. He gingerly touched his worn mask unnerved in a moment of doubt. "I deserve that much, don't I?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 6**

**August 1882: In the Phantom's Lair**

Two days later Erik impatiently paced the main room of his lair. He had awoken early and dressed himself in his finery. Since he had yet to replace his good mask, he made do with his worn one. He hoped Christine would not mind. She had seen his actual face, but Erik wanted to be immaculate for her. Over the hours, he had tried to compose, play both the violin and piano, and repair what remind of his personal effects. With a growl of frustration, he had swept his sheet music to the floor and everything else that lay upon his ebony desk. So, he had chosen to pace as his anxiety grew. The soft chime of the clock on the fireplace mantle made him stop.

She was late. He turned wondering if she had misread the directions and lost her way in the labyrinth of tunnels. The Daroga knew the labyrinth very well, but this was the first time his golden haired Angel had ever walked those bleak tunnels. As the last chime died, he heard soft, shuffling footsteps nearing his home. She emerged from the darkness carrying a small candle. Pursing her lips, she blew the candle out before setting it down on the floor. Carefully, she removed her hood and stood holding her shaking hands.

"Christine," he said in his hypnotic voice. Afraid she may run like the doe in spring from the hungry wolf, he didn't dare to move close to her.

"Erik... I... I'm sorry... For everything. I know you said you forgive me, but I still feel so guilty," she said quietly. "Yet I asked a favor of you. " Her blue eyes stared at the patterns in the rug.

"_Ma chère_, I will do anything for you. I am your humble servant. All you have to do is ask," he said taking a few steps closer to her. He wanted to see her eyes, her cherubic face framed by a halo of golden curls.

"Can we sing once more?" her voice had dropped to a whisper as if she was afraid to speak.

Erik smiled and for the first time since she had left him, he felt joy. "Of course, Christine." He carefully took her cloak and laid it upon the coach near the fireplace. He removed his suit jacket and white kid gloves and laid them both beside her cloak. The faint smell of jasmine began to fill his lair. Because the organ remained in pieces, he chose to settle himself before the piano. He failed to notice Christine's wandering eye around his ruined lair and emotions that filled her sky blue eyes. He began to play the passage from Gounod's _Romeo et Juliette_ and Erik lost himself in her angelic voice.

Christine sang and at times, Erik sang with her. He watched her just as she watched him - both enthralled by the music they made together. Their voices soared, dove, and hovered in the air. The space between them was filled with electricity. Erik favored the songs he had taught Christine to sing and she smiled a little easier each time a familiar bar started underneath his deft fingers. He saved _Faust_ for last. During their shared moment of music, Christine had moved closer to him. She stood beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder as he sang Mephistopheles lines from _Faust_: "You whom I adore, refuse not, I implore, a sweet kiss..."

He gazed up at her loving face. His Marguerite did not sleep but her lips were sweet upon his. He abruptly stopped playing as he realized Christine had answered his request. Erik hadn't planned on this response from her, but his trembling hands reached up to touch her soft, flowing hair. He felt her hands release him as she pulled away. Reluctantly, he released her. The kiss had been tender and gentle just like Christine; a kiss the exact opposite of the desperate one she last gave him in his home. A far away dreamy look glazed her eyes as he stared at her.

"Why did you kiss me?" he asked in a near whisper. He swallowed hard trying to control the tremor in his melodic voice. He couldn't stand to look at her so Erik turned away. He pressed the heel of his hand to his exposed eye to hold back the tears that wished to fall. "Why, Christine?" _Why did you do it?_ _Don't you know what you do to me?! _He wanted to say it, but his voice caught in his throat.

The dazed look in her eyes had gone and Christine had pulled away instinctively. It had not been her plan to kiss him so soon. She had been caught up in the song; her Mephistopheles' loving gaze had beckoned to her as he implored her for a kiss. His voice had wrapped around her like a warm blanket. For the love of all that was holy, she had missed that embrace. Her body ached for it. To have it returned to her by the Angel once more... not a monster as he had been but her dear Angel... She began to ring her hands, one over the other, revealing her anxiety. She dropped her frightened gaze to the hem of her dress.

"I... don't know why," she lied. She knew perfectly well why. The music had wrapped around her heart and squeezed out of all the pressure found there. She had flown back into the clouds the Angel of Music created with his music and voice. Her imagination and passion had intertwined once more. She turned to go, but Erik caught her arm unexpectedly. His grip wasn't painful, but it was strong enough to draw her back to him.

"Why do you do this to me, Christine? Why do you torture me in my dreams and now here? You made your choice..." he questioned her as he held her in front of him. Tears came unwanted as he stared up at her beatific face. Her golden hair glowed in the gas lights of his lair. Her blue eyes were normally the color of the summer sky in Provence, but a hint of cobalt tinted them. A blush graced her pale cheeks. _Mon dieu_, he thought, _has she ever been more beautiful?_ He drew her down to sit on the bench beside him.

"Our music," she said with a downcast glance. "I don't want to... I don't want to see it die."

Erik drew her to him in an embrace as she cried and poured out her hurt over her husband's inability to understand. Her body shuddered as she spoke, "Raoul knows only Little Lotte - a dreamer, a girl who danced and sang to her father's music. He loves to see me sing, to hear it, but he doesn't feel it! I don't know how to make him understand. I don't know how... He wants to clip my wings, Erik."

"Christine," he sighed while stroking her back as he held her. His shoulder was wet and growing cold underneath her hot tears. "Does he want you to stop singing altogether?"

"I don't know... I heard his mother tell him to take me away from Paris in order to 'fulfill my wifely duties.'" The acerbic tone as Christine said the last few words made her laugh. "Wifely duties... She says it's unbecoming for me to sing dressed as a trollop or slave on stage. She says I should be at home waiting patiently for Raoul; that I should attend to his every need like Sarah for Abraham."

"She sounds like a Puritan," Erik muttered. He felt Christine give a chuckle and pull away from him. He reluctantly let his hands slip away from her body. He had promised not to keep her and like a gentleman, he would respect her wishes.

"I don't know what to do, Erik. That's why I have been avoiding the mangers' questions as to my next performance. It's why I wrote to you and talked with you at the opera. It's why I came today." She took the handkerchief Erik proffered to dab her eyes and face of the tears. "I didn't mean to cause you more turmoil, Erik. I simply need to feel again." She smiled and made an embarrassed gesture. "I'm sorry for ruining your shirt and sharing my troubles with you. That was never my intent..."

"I do not think..." He despised and envied the man to steal his angel so he once again refused to say his name aloud. "Your husband will most certainly not approve of your visit or actions today." He watched Christine's slender shoulders drop in dismay. "You will have to be more discreet when you wish to visit me for another lesson." His tempestuous heart sang when she smiled. "Have you told any of your friends of your predicament?"

Christine shook her curly blond head. He heaved a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his slicked back hair.

"Maybe you should. I am sure they can give you an idea as to how to come to a compromise with your husband and his mother's demands." Erik smiled as Christine let the idea sink in. _Oh, Christine... you are so innocent. It's why I will always... _His train of thought stopped before he finished it. He would always love her, but she would never return it. Or would she? _She_ had kissed _him_. Did he dare to continue to hope? Yet... _I want to hold on to what is left. I don't want to let our music die.  
_

Her hand on his wet shoulder shook him back from his thoughts. A thin eyebrow was raised in question over her quizzical expression. "Erik? Did you hear what I said?"

"I... No, I did not. Can you repeat what you said?" he asked stiffening. Her face was so close to his. All he had to do was lean in to touch those soft pink lips again... but then she was no longer there. The soft chime of the clock on the mantle echoed throughout the lair.

"I said I have to go," she gave him once last smile before turning to rise from the makeshift piano bench. "Perhaps I can find Marguerite or Eleanor before I must be home."

"The passage you once used is still there. You may take it if you wish. Would you like for me to escort you?" He didn't move from his spot. He watched her don her cloak. He both wanted and did not want Christine to say yes to his offer. He couldn't bring himself to be close to her again. She was like fire to him; the closer he was to Christine, the more he longed to stay near her and breathe in the scent of her.

She laughed, a gentle one that warmed and calmed the tempest in his heart. "That is unnecessary. I believe I can manage on my own."

He heard the rustle of her skirts on his Turkish rug. He heard her stop, turn, and softly say "Thank you, Erik." The Phantom couldn't bear to turn and watch her leave him once again. Yet he yearned for that one last fleeting glimpse of beauty. Rising from his seat, Erik chose to follow his Angel.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 7**

**August 1882: Workshops of the Opera House**

"Christine! What brings you here?" Little Meg exclaimed with joy upon seeing her friend and taking the singer's outstretched hands in her own.

"To see you, of course!" Christine replied with a deft lie. She had told Raoul that she would visit Meg and her friends at the Opera House; she was simply making her cover story a fact in order to avoid any suspicion of where she had been for an hour. By luck, she had run into Eleanor the seamstress shortly after exiting the secret passageway from Erik's subterranean realm. The older woman was laboring to bring bolts of cloth to her backstage workshop. Christine offered to carry one, but Eleanor stubbornly refused to let the diva turned Vicomtess help. They had found Meg waiting in the workshop still dressed in her practice uniform.

"A surprise? For _moi_?" Little Meg feinted surprise dramatically, which made Christine laugh. Why had she avoided her friend Meg? She had a knack for making light of situations.

As Eleanor measured and draped Meg in fabric, all three women conversed and gossiped about the latest happenings. Christine was surprised to hear of who left, who stayed, who was promoted, and who was demoted. She also laughed at Eleanor's tales of her husband the stableman and his motley crew of stable hands. Her hand covered her mouth in surprise to hear of La Sorelli leaving to live somewhere in the countryside. Rumor, of course, but word around the Opera house spoke of her swelling belly and the Comte Louis-Philippe being the father. Christine wondered if Raoul already knew and if La Sorelli had (or would) contact the de Chagny family matron.

"I hope she doesn't," Christine found herself admitting honestly. Meg and Eleanor looked at her a little surprised. Christine sighed and twisted a curl around her finger. "Mother de Chagny is very..." She searched for a word and decided upon the one Erik used. "Puritanical. She would probably not acknowledge the child unless Phillippe left proof with La Sorelli."

"Oh dear," Eleanor breathed before sticking a pin back into a nearby pincushion. "We shall have to keep an ear out for our _prima ballerina_."

"Indeed," Meg agreed before pegging Christine with a look. "You sound as if you and your mother-in-law are not on good terms."

"Not at the moment, no," Christine confessed. "She wishes for me to step away from the stage entirely and provide the de Chagny line with an heir."

"What about Raoul?" Meg asked letting Eleanor focus on her measurements. "What does he think?

"To my knowledge, he does not disagree. He asked me after church to consider going on holiday during the upcoming season. He thinks a trip to the coast may alleviate me of my troubles and help us conceive a child."

Meg huffed in disapproval. "We need you here. The new soprano is good at acting, but she is worse than Carlotta. Her understudy has promise, but she fears the older woman. Tell Raoul you can sing AND make a baby here in Paris. Staring at the sea won't procure him or his mother a child any faster."

"Ah, Christine..." Eleanor said with a motherly smile as she stepped away from Meg. The hands roughened from numerous years of pricking needles and pins tried to stifle a laugh. "Sit, Meg. You should hear this as well. Now, young ladies... marriage is not easy. There is a give and take, an ebb and flow like the sea, which must occur in order for both husband and wife to be at peace. Christine, you want to sing but you also want to be a good wife. I suggest you to talk him. See if he agrees with his mother's ideas. My dear Jean and I had our troubles for a time. We struggled to find work and to have children, but we have learned to support the other and work together to make the other happy. Compromise is key."

"That is what good marriages do," said a voice from the doorway. All three turned to see Madame Giry in her mourning black with her graying her pulled back into a ballet bun. Her stern countenance broke as she smiled and offered a hug to Christine. "It is good to see you, child. It sounds as if you and your husband are at odds?"

"We are," Christine affirmed. "He wishes for me to leave the Opera."

"And you don't want to. Hmm... Take him up on what he offers." She held up a hand at Christine's protest. "In return, give this option - that you wish to sing privately for the patrons at least once a season. Your voice draws them in like bees to wildflowers in spring. We would be grateful to have you here, but don't risk your marriage for us."

Christine blinked. Why hadn't she thought of that? She could still perform and not be bound by the demands of performing night after night. She could give Raoul and her new life the time it needed to grow while she held onto her music. It would give her an excuse to see and sing with Erik again. "Madame Giry... thank you!"

"What a brilliant idea, _mother_," Meg agreed. "Christine, why not propose such an idea to the managers once you have convinced your husband? At the moment, the managers are at their wit's end as to what to do since you haven't spoken to them. They are eager to regain the Opera's prestige since... "

_Of course_, Christine thought to herself as Meg's voice trailed off. While she had been on her honeymoon, the opera had languished. The infusion of money from the new benefactor had helped, but the latest performance and singers were droll. Her old home would surely die and she would no longer sing. She clutched the skirt of her dress and looked down at her hands.

"Please, Christine, talk to Raoul and the managers. If you are ready to return, we'd all be glad to have you back, but we understand if this place holds too many hurts for you," Meg said taking Christine's hand and patting it. "We have not heard from _him_ since that night. No letters, no voices, nothing."

"I will. Thank you, Meg. Eleanor. Madame Giry. I will let you know and visit again soon," Christine said smiling. She gave Meg's hand a squeeze and rose. "I should return home before my husband begins to worry. Thank you all again for your advice and consul. You are good friends to have."

Christine hugged each woman before walking with Meg through the opera house to the front door. The singer's heart felt lighter since admitting her troubles and having a solution at hand. Christine only half-listened to her friend's latest musings. Mostly it centered around the other ballerinas and who would replace La Sorelli. Meg hugged her once more at the doors, and Christine walked out into the twilight to hail a cab back home to Raoul.

Erik listened from between the walls of the seamstress' studio. So, Christine's "wifely duties" were to produce an heir to the de Chagny line? He was not surprised that she affirmed his thoughts, but he held mixed emotions over the news. A child, a normal life with Christine would never be his, but... he was pleased Raoul could not at this time offer her that dream. He was also unsurprised at Madame Giry offering the best advice. The woman was wise; a tad blunt with her advice, but the advice was good in this instance. Christine would continue to sing at least in some small measure. A private performance here at the Opera would also allow him to see her perform again, to shine again. He would know for certain once she returned for another lesson what the outcome would be. He smiled to himself at the thought of her voice once again intertwined with his, of her presence close to him, and of her soft lips upon his once more. He lingered in the glow of the memory until Madame Giry's words from the room chilled his daydream.

"I hope Christine does not return."

"Why, Antoinette? She is like a second daughter to you, no?"

"Her dream was never to sing for fame; her dream was to sing for her father and the man who loved her. She does not need the Opera anymore. She has a man who loves her. She should stop daydreaming of the stage and focus on her reality."

"True... she is silly to think she can return to this life simply because the Ghost is gone for good."

"_Exactamente_. She has a new life, and she needs to grow into it." The firm click of Antoinette's cane followed by her hard boots sounded on the wooden floor. "When will you start on the costumes, Eleanor?"

"Tomorrow. I need Jean's help to bring more fabric from the store, and we need to visit _mon petite'_s grave."

"My apologies. I forgot today was the anniversary of her passing."

"No apologies needed. We've both had our hardships. I will send one of the girls to you once I have begun the work."

Erik listened to Madame Giry's footsteps fade away into the hallways behind the Opera. He listened to Eleanor humming a hymn softly to herself before she too left the workshop. He remembered the day he failed to save the little girl from falling to the stage. She had been wandering in the rafters, a mere five-year-old unafraid of the heights above the stage. The girl saw him and frightened out of her wits, she had tried to run. Before he could grab the girl, she slipped and fell. Her small body hit one of the massive beams running across the stage. The crack of her small bones echoed in his ears as he watched her body tumble like a scarecrow to the stage. He ducked into the shadows and prayed no one saw him. The ballet girls screamed. A stagehand had run to the girl and covered her tiny frail body with a blanket. Little Meg, barely older than Eleanor's daughter, clung to her mother's skirts. Erik blamed himself, but he knew it wasn't his fault. The child shouldn't have been up there. Listening to Eleanor hum, he felt the guilt tug at him. He felt sorry for Eleanor and Jean; they never had another child.

Carefully he crept out of his hiding spot and maneuvered his way back to his subterranean realm. There was nothing he could do for Eleanor and Jean. He had given them both gifts - a bolt of fine cloth delivered "by mistake" to Eleanor and new shoes magically replaced Jean's worn ones one evening. It was all he could do for them. Gradually, his mind turned from the guilt to his master plan of winning Christine back. His plan had worked, but in order for it to continue, Christine had to be the one to convince Raoul to let her perform.

"I would have let her sing if she stayed with me. I wouldn't being keeping her talents from the world; I would keep Christine like a bird in a gilded cage!" he muttered to himself upon entering his home. He stoked the fire back into life and turned the gas lamps on. _Ah, but she would've been a canary in an iron and rock cage,_ pointed out the nagging inner voice. _You _wanted_ to keep her song for yourself. Wasn't that the original plan? To make her your prisoner? Your pure white bride in this realm of darkness?  
_

"She would've had our music to keep her alive," he argued jamming the poker into a charred log. Sparks flew upward through the flue and out of pipes to the sewers.

_A person can't live on music alone. They aren't like _you.

"Shut up." He felt a chilly hand grip his shoulder. Turning, Erik knew there was no one else in his lair.

The voice came from the fire then the very walls of his domain._ You will _never_ get her back. She will torture you by returning and leaving again and again. She only wants the Angel of Music and not the man behind the voice. She despises you. She hates you. She fears you.  
_

"SHUT UP!" he shouted covering his ears. The voice didn't stop. It repeated itself over and over. _She despises you. She hates you. She fears you. She despises you. She hates you. She fears you. She despises you. She hates you. She fears you.  
_

"ENOUGH!" The voice stopped. Breathing heavily, he sat down in the plush faded blue side chair. "Enough. Why can't you leave me alone?"

The fire eating away at the wood was his only response. He sat in his chair staring at the flames dancing in the hearth. He wondered how best to keep Christine in his life and how to win her love again. He would deal with her husband another day. Another thought nagged at him, but he mentally pushed it aside.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

**A/N:** This is a gentle warning that the end of this chapter is very sexually suggestive. If you do not enjoy reading this type of material, skip the last 5-6 paragraphs. – p.s.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 8**

**September 1882: In the Phantom's Lair**

He waited patiently for Christine behind his desk. In his hand, he stared at the second letter. His right hand tapped gently at the cheek of his worn mask. He had discerned long ago that the "something of his" was his mask. Who the mysterious M was, however, eluded him. Then again, his thoughts had been occupied elsewhere.

"Who are you, Monsieur?" he asked the ether. "What do you want from me?" There was always something people wanted from him. He didn't really believe the person simply wanted to return his mask and willingly keep his secret. The man probably wanted money or a position at the opera. Perhaps it was another trap. Erik would make arrangements to receive his mask and the man would have him surrounded by police. Erik smirked. What if the 'M' was meant to misdirect him? It was clever, but not clever enough. He threw the letter back on his desk and rose to stride over to his organ.

Repairs had been slow. His funds were being diverted to Nadir and supporting the opera above. He fixed what he could on his meager stash of money. His food stores in the cellar had thankfully provided him with what little food he needed to survive. But music... the pain from not hearing the organ bellow under his touch hurt.

"Soon, my friend," he muttered stroking the cracked lacquer body. "Soon I will fix you and we'll fill this dismal place with joy and sadness again." He heard a soft tinkling sound from the bells in the cellar. Something or someone had fallen into one of his traps. Before he could open the hidden door to rush down and investigate, he heard the soft falls of small feet and the rustle of skirts. He turned to see Christine pull her velvet hood down around her shoulders. She shined like a jewel in the fire and lamp light.

"An angel more beautiful than Dante's dear Beatrice," he said under his breath as she smiled up at him. He composed himself and chose to ignore the alarm. Whoever he caught would have to wait. Erik crossed the room and took Christine's hands into his. "I've missed you."

"I missed you, too," Christine replied giving his ungloved hands a gentle squeeze. She didn't pull away and let out a small sigh. "I cannot stay long. Raoul suspects I am up to something."

Erik gritted his teeth at the man's name then relaxed. "Suspects you of what?"

"God only knows," Christine said with a shrug. She pulled her hands away and began to untie her cloak. "We have time for only one song."

Taking her cloak, he laid it on the coach and settled at the piano as she walked to stand beside it to his left instead of his right. She wore a simple, high collared frock of pale blue. Her hair hung loose down her back, completely out of fashion with the rest of her attire. "What would you have me play, Christine?"

She smiled sweetly and settled onto the piano bench next to him. He tensed as he smelled jasmine and sunlight. Her arm brushed against his. "The aria from _Don Juan_."

"Christine," Erik replied swallowing hard as he glanced at her. He hid his trembling hands in his lap and looked away from the beautiful creature beside him. "No... Not that. I don't think I can stand to hear anything from that... abominable composition."

Her hand touched his arm and he felt the heat of her hand through his suit jacket. "Please... Let me sing your work once more."

He felt desire for both her, and the song stir in his chest. The heartbroken man didn't dare to move. "I can't."

Christine pouted and her other hand crept upward to gently lift Erik's gaze to hers. "This may be the last time I am here, Erik," she pleaded with tears welling up in her blue eyes. "Raoul plans to take me to Calais in three weeks. Give me this song so my heart can be lighter."

She saw the fury blaze in Erik's strange gaze, but the monster didn't retaliate. The beauty kept the beast at bay. Christine relished her ability to control this dangerous creature, but she also knew she walked a fine line with him. If she pushed him too hard, Erik would let his emotions control him. His reason would abandon him in a heartbeat. To soothe his raging mind and manipulate him into her desire, she leaned in and kissed his bare left cheek. His sharp inhale made her smirk with triumph. All men were alike - a promise here, a little tenderness there, and they were wrapped around your little finger. Raoul was the exception to her coy seductions.

"Very well," he whispered as she pulled away. However, his fingers played automatically without the emotion needed to convey the beauty of the song. Christine sang beside him feeling the dullness between them. She touched his arm again stopping his playing. "Told you, Christine... I've tried... and I can't..."

"Erik, it's all right," she replied hearing his melodious voice crack with emotion. "Play another. Please."

"Kiss me," he demanded feeling the power return to his voice. "Kiss me, _mon ange de la musique_. Give this damned soul the inspiration to rise to the Heavens with your voice."

Christine shivered and felt the hypnotic tug of his words. She sighed and let him take her face in his hands. She felt the cool mask pressed against her cheek and tried not to pull away. She imagined she was kissing Raoul and let herself sink into the passion behind Erik's gentle touch. The kiss was tender but forceful, respectful but demanding more. Alas, she could not give this man what he long desired. Gently she pushed him away and noticed his mask eschew. The revulsion and horror returned suddenly. She turned away from him.

The innocent, wanting kiss ended too abruptly for Erik. He felt his mask after seeing her turn away, and he moved it back into place. She didn't scream, but he had seen the fear in her blue eyes. Without another word, he began to play the aria he had written for Christine. His warring emotions fuelled the song, and Christine reacted to him by singing beautifully. The more her voice rose and fell, the more powerful he played. He began to sing harmony to her song and felt her draw closer to him. Instinctively he let the aria end and flow into another piece with a slight change of key. Christine smiled at him and followed his lead singing the duet. As the second song ended, her voice fell away and Erik stopped playing.

"I must go," she said quietly. Her back was to him and he rose to stand behind her.

"You don't have to," he replied placing his hands on her shoulders, testing her emotions. "You can stay. We can leave Paris together. We can go-"

Her hand reached up and held his. She wouldn't look at him. "I can't. I made my choice, Erik."

She moved away from him but he followed. Christine moved to pick up her cloak over the couch, but Erik took it from her to place it around her. He held her in her cloak by the front and turned her to him.

"But you are here. Obviously you made the wrong choice. Now you can rectify it."

She shook her blond head. "I made a vow, Erik. 'Til death do us part."

"I can arrange that," he said seriously. He had said it without thinking and regretted it seeing the fear in her eyes. "His death not yours..." He was sinking fast. "Or not at all." Her fear melted. "Christine, you love me still, don't you?"

"I don't know, Erik. I love Raoul. I truly do," Christine replied then frowned. "But he doesn't... or he can't... he feels _nothing_ in music. Not like we do." She placed her head against his chest and welcomed his arms around her in an embrace. "Oh, Erik, I don't know what to do."

He held her tightly and marveled at how her body formed to his. He wanted to kiss her worries away and whisk his sweet angel away to where no one would bother them. Practical logic, however, shook him to his core. The nagging voice in his head whispered words of betrayal in his ear. Christine had made her choice... and it wasn't him. He loved her... but did she truly love him or the music he gave her?

"Christine," he whispered then kissed the top of her head. "Let me lead you out of here."

She nodded against his chest grateful he had made the decision for her. Quietly they walked through the labyrinth of passages. Erik stopped before the secret door in the darkness. He turned and drew Christine to him once last time.

"May I?" he asked gentlemanly. She breathed a _yes_ and his kiss was one of pure desire. In the darkness, she let him drive his tongue into her mouth. The mask had been removed, but she dared not touch his deformed face. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body into his. He trembled against her and almost painfully held her tight. Everything – all of the desire and passion Christine sought – came crashing through her, and suddenly, she didn't want him to let go. She didn't care except for filling that primal void of physical need.

As if in response, like a dying man to a life raft, Erik took what he wanted from her. Driven by her obvious pleasure, his hands roamed. Gently, he pushed her against the wall before letting his hands wander further. His thin lips drew away from her lush pair to caress other parts of her covered body. A far away part of him acknowledged the half-breathed sounds from her pale throat and the bite of her finger tips on his shoulders.

Christine felt more wanted than she had ever had underneath Raoul's touch. Her husband's gestures were tender and timid; Erik's demanded and took what he wanted from her. She tried to stifle a different type of moan as Erik's long-fingered, cold hand sought more of her. In the darkness, she bit her lush lips to keep her voice contained while her body expressed itself unconsciously. Her mind ignored the owner of that hand. Something drove her just as it drove this dark angel, this monster, this poor tortured man. In the darkness, she could imagine that the passion and pleasure she craved from this man came from another. She barely realized she had said it, but as Erik continued his ministrations, she breathed Raoul's name.

The darkness felt stifling. Erik's hand stopped. He pulled away feeling the arousal drain from him. He heard Christine panting in the darkness. His unfulfilled desires clawed at his aching body, but the small pieces of his broken heart turned to dust in his chest. Reality came suddenly to him and he became painfully aware of what Christine had done to him. Carefully, he melted into the darkness leaving behind a dream he could never have. Her voice followed him. His name on her lips made him shiver in disgust and desire.

"Erik?" she asked again weakly. Only the sound of her own breathing filled the silence in the tunnels. Erik was gone. Christine bit her tender bottom lip and cursed mentally at herself. She shivered feeling the wellspring of desire hovering within her still begging form to be filled. She had wanted to say Erik's name. She had wanted to give in to the passion between them and succumb to Erik fully in his dark world. Yet she had been thinking of her husband… and she had said, "Raoul."

Hurt and unsatisfied, she exited the passageway not caring if anyone saw her and walked to her waiting carriage. Like a medicinal drip, feelings of regret and then relief began to sink into her thoughts. Christine went home to her husband and coaxed him into the bedroom to see if he could satiate the need Erik had sparked within her.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 9**

**September 1882: Beneath the Opera House**

Meanwhile Meg woke to find herself in a strange room. Her head pounded and she gingerly touched her brow. A small bead of blood clung to her fingertip. Whatever had happened, she had hit her head and hit it hard. She recalled seeing the Chagny carriage pull up to the Opera House and Christine exit. Meg had simply gone out for a few errands and hadn't anticipated seeing her old friend that day. She found it odd for Christine to come to the Opera House without sending word first. Curious, she watched as Christine waited for the carriage to leave and then walk to the side of the massive building. Quickly Meg moved to follow and watched from the corner of the alleyway. Christine glanced around to make sure no one was near her. Meg knelt and pushed against the wall hoping to remain unseen beside a few broken crates. An opening appeared in the wall and Christine descended into it. Meg approached and saw the door slide shut to reveal nothing of its existence.

As Meg pushed against the door, she realized two things: first, that the Phantom was alive, and secondly, that Christine had been visiting the madman beneath the Palais Garnier. For how long, Meg could only guess. It would certainly explain Christine's return the first time after her honeymoon. _Oh, Christine... Why are you dallying with the demon again? Don't you ever learn!_ Meg scolded her friend. Meg sat back on her heels and examined the wall. Christine's hand had been at eye height. Meg was shorter than Christine so she looked higher than normal. The edge of a poster on the wall revealed a small square barely noticeable to the naked eye. Meg pushed it and silently the door slid open.

With a grin at her cleverness, Meg slipped into the dark passageway intent on following her friend to the ghost and confronting them both. What she hadn't anticipated was the inability to see in the darkness. Using her hands on either wall, she moved slowly forward down the center of the passage. She quickly came to a fork. Unsure of which way to go, she chose the right passage and found herself falling.

Looking around the room, she began to feel dizzy. The room was endless. The reflection of one mirror into the next created the illusion of infinite doors leading to infinite spaces. Even the floor and ceilings had been mirrored. She hadn't seen a door or any other means of escape. Carefully she pushed herself backwards until her back rested against a wall. Turning she began to pound on the wall as hard as she could.

"Help! Someone! Please, help me!" she shouted repeatedly. She gave up for a moment to listen and despaired upon hearing nothing. _No footsteps, no signs of another human being. _"I'm trapped... in one of the ghost's torture chambers."

She closed her eyes again feeling dizzy and laid her head on the floor. Meg began to despair wondering if she could get out at all. With the Phantom gone, there was no one to find her. No one had found this place during the searches for the Phantom's body. No one would find her. Her despair quickly turned to frustration at Christine. If the damned idiot had stayed away from the Opera house, Meg never would've felt compelled to follow her. Why would Christine venture into the bowels of the Palais Garnier again? Meg doubted Christine would return for the sheer lark of seeing the Phantom's ruined home. Meg wondered if the Phantom lived and still held Christine in his grip again. She shook her head. The terror Christine suffered had sparked the whole series of events. Christine wouldn't willingly risk her life to return to a man she feared unless something else...

"Christine, you idiot," Meg breathed angrily to herself. "I refuse to die because you refuse to accept your new life."

Stubbornly, Meg tried to ignore the growing heat in the chamber. She stripped off her coat, scarf and wool stockings. Pulling a ribbon from the coat's pocket, she loosely pulled her hair up. Sweat began to trickle down her neck and chest. Reaching back into the coat's pocket, she found the small push pin she kept along the edge. With a grimace, she pricked her pointer finger until a drop of red blood blossomed there. Turning to the mirror she drew a line down it. At the next mirror she drew two. She continued around the room, pricking each finger as she went. The heat was unbearable and she licked her upper lip for moisture. Just as suddenly as the heat had begun, it began to ebb. With a sigh of relief, Meg examined the red marks she had made. They helped to make the room of mirrors to appear smaller, less dizzying in their ability to multiple the small room into infinity. She hadn't noticed in the middle of the room the strange mirrored tree. Intricate, false leaves branched out from overarching limbs and hung downward.

She shivered and noticed her breath come out in a puff. Her eyes grew wide. The room goes from one extreme to the next? In a panic, Meg wrapped herself back up in her coat, scarf, and stockings. She crouched, trying to keep her body heat contained.

"Damn you, Ghost," she muttered through chattering teeth. "How am I supposed to concentrate to get out of here with these ridiculous tricks?" She stared at the tree. There were no limbs for her to climb up into the leaves. In fact, the limbs were part of the design of the ceiling. She closed her eyes feeling vertigo again. After a minute, she strode out to the tree to look underneath it. Drops of water were near frozen underneath. Meg's eyes grew wide. If the room grew hot again and the water fell, it would began to steam in here. If the temperature cycled through again and again increasing and decreasing more rapidly, she'd either be boiled by the steam or freeze by ice to death. She slowly backed away and shivered. _I am going to die in here_.

"Ballet rats should stay on stage and not venture into the labyrinths underneath the opera house," his dark voice rumbled. Meg pressed her back against the mirror marked four. It shifted and her weight fell against something solid but not flat. Gloved hands firmly gripped her upper arms and hauled her out of the dizzying room.

"Stay out of my affairs!" He roared as he threw her to the ground of his underground lair. His anger boiled over. He hovered above her like a murderous hawk over a tiny brown mouse. She stared up at him in horror and surprise. The mask was different; it wasn't white like the one she had seen as a child. It wasn't a skull or a black one. The man, however, with his hypnotic voice and powerful body was the same. The Opera Ghost was alive and _had _seduced her friend once more with his promises. He reached down with those murderous hands. Something in Meg snapped and anger gave her backbone iron.

"Stay away from Christine!" she yelled back. Her words stunned him visibly. "Haven't you done enough, Monsieur Fantôme?" She sat up taking on the same tone her mother used to scold her as a child. "She drove you into madness with her silly dreams of angelic beings! She drove you to destroy the Opera House, my home! Why do you tempt Fate again? Do you wish to see every last innocent here burned because of your folly for... for... that naive girl?"

"She is not naive..." he replied in a weak defense of Christine. What had happened in the tunnels stung him. She knew what he had wanted, but... she didn't _want_ him. He had hoped to take his confused feelings out on the intruder, but finding the intruder to be Madame Giry's daughter had thwarted that release. Her defiance surprised him in fact. He had expected the ballerina to wail and scream. In actuality he had found a small ballet rat that was in reality a she-cat intent on putting up a fight. Meg waved his response away like a bothersome fly.

"She is my friend, Monsieur, but she is indeed naive." Meg heaved a heavy sigh. Her anger melted into frustration. "She is married and has married well, but she gives no thought to how Raoul may feel. She cares only about her own well-being… still."

"You know nothing, child," he muttered out of frustration at her. Her words were truer than she knew. They plucked a string in him, but he refused to admit she was right. "You call yourself a _friend_ to Christine... Like you would know the meaning of the word."

"Oh, I do, Monsieur Fantôme. I know Christine's mind. She's scared of her new life, a life not filled with singing. She doesn't see the potential for doing _good_ in the world so she runs back to you without a thought of the consequences. The world changes and so do we."

Erik glared down at the girl at his feet. _Little Giry is very much like Madame Giry_, he mused. Again her words held a ring of truth. Upon learning of his return to the living, Christine had wasted no time in contacting him and rekindling their musical amour. She toyed with the broken pieces of his heart, of his opera house... _But... it's Christine, my ange de musique, my blue-eyed goddess... the woman who had broken his heart and married another, who had tempted him now with her body and shunned him again. _He scowled at the voice inside his head.

"As her friend, I can't let her jeopardize our lives once more for her... musical whims."

The steel in Meg's voice turned Erik's hot anger into a dull burn. She lay sprawled on the floor at his feet with her brown coat revealing glimpses of her drab old skirts. Her glare softened as Erik let the silence drag out between them. She began to examine her surroundings and ignoring the hulking man.

"So, this is where you live," she asked in a quiet voice. She had seen the place before when she had squeezed passed the portcullis ahead of the mob. She had been there when they had torn the organ apart, damaged the piano, destroyed the Christine mannequin, and smashed the swan bed to pieces. To see the place somewhat restored and changed was a marvel. She noticed the bookcase in the corner; it no longer stood flush to the wall and light shown out from behind it. In the meantime, Erik ignored her remark.

"No more," he stated with a finality that stopped her curious mind from wandering. Her body tensed and she stared wide-eyed at him as he knelt down in front of her. From his back pocket, he pulled out his clean white handkerchief. "Close your eyes, Mademoiselle. I'm sure you understand that I cannot let you see the way out of here." He tied the knot above her loose ponytail made by the worn ribbon in her hair and carefully helped the blindfolded girl up onto her feet. "Do not let go of my hand until I tell you to."

He tugged once at her and began to stride forward. Meg tripped on the carpet and nearly fell into him as he led her out of his lair. While he led Meg back to the land of the living, Erik warred with his emotions and over this strange twist of events. Christine did and didn't want him. She wanted the music, the passion, and God knew he wanted to give all of himself to her… but she didn't _want _him_. _She wouldn't be returning unless something changed her husband's plans. Now this noisome and stubborn child threatened his life. He should have left her in the torture room to die, but he couldn't bring himself to kill the innocent child of Madame Giry. He dragged her around a corner and felt her trip again. For a dancer, she certainly lacked grace in his opinion.

"Monsieur."

_How in the seven hells did the girl even get down here? She came from the direction of the passage Christine had used... She must've followed. What a cheeky child._ He cursed realizing he would have to close that door and find another way to lead Christine down to him.

"Monsieur!" Her outcry made him stop and she ran into his backside as he stopped abruptly. He scowled at the contact.

"What do you want?" he growled at her. "Are you going to scream? Say that you will tell the authorities of my existence? I should've skinned you alive and used your fat like cat gut on my violin's strings."

"I have your mask," she said trying to look to where the voice had come. She shivered slightly in the dank tunnels but stopped feeling a pair of strong, gloved hands on her upper arms. Her words came out in a panicked rush. "I found the mask upon the chair since I was the first to enter your home. I had squeezed between the bars of the portcullis since the others could not. While the mob ransacked and destroyed your home, I tucked the mask into my shirt. I've since hid it among my belongings and told no one of it."

He chuckled to himself. The irony of his mask closer to a woman's heart than he had ever been was too much for him. The fact a small ballet rat had saved it from destruction as if it were a toy or prize to be treasured was too much. "In your belongings?"

"Y-yes... in my intimates drawer."

He laughed out loud at that. Meg listened to his rumbling voice. The laugh wasn't menacing like it had been the night of Carlotta's croak. It was genuinely filled with mirth at her hurried admission. For Erik, the thought of his mask lying among such garments was too much irony to take. This day was proving strange indeed.

"So, YOU are the mysterious M," he said with a chuckle. He took her chin in his fingers and titled her head up to him. She couldn't see him, but he wanted her undivided attention. He let honey drip from his voice to entice her. "My dear, would you be so kind as to return it to Box Five? Simply lay it on the seat closest to the stage so I may retrieve it."

"What if someone sees me and follows?" she asked hesitantly. She had been worried to do the same thing he suggested out of fear of being labeled a conspirator.

"Do it at the witching hour tonight, M," he said with a hint of arrogance. He leaned over so he could whisper in her ear. "Or is Little Meg too scared?"

He laughed at her shiver and slight jump away from his voice. Taking her wrist, he led her up the passageway to the trapdoor leading to the backstage hallway. He listened for a moment before pulling the lever and letting the door pull back and slide open. No one was there. Quickly he pushed Meg out into the hallway. He pulled the lever back into place. As the door shut, he saw Meg pull the handkerchief off and glare at him with dark eyes. With a smile, he threw his voice to say into her ear, "Stay away, curious little mouse, or the cat _will_ find and eat you."

He chuckled to himself hearing a loud thud. It sounded as if someone had kicked the secure panel in frustration. His mirth didn't last as the nagging voice returned to taunt him with every step taking him back to his dark home.

_Well, well... first you are _denied_ by the woman you love, a woman you wish to shower with your affection. She seemed ardent enough to let you take her. Pressed against the walls of the tunnels, in the dark in the dirt, like a secret, like a lie. Your precious angel… wanting you! HA! What a laugh. She desperately wanted something – someone – and it wasn't YOU. _

"Enough," Erik ground out through clenched teeth. He clenched his fists and fought to keep the sound of Christine's pleasure-filled voice out of his mind. The inner voice chuckled darkly.

_Then you find a ballet rat! A curious little mouse that weaseled her way into YOUR domain. She nosed her way into the tunnels and by chance, she fell into a trap of your design! Not just any ballet rat either… _the voice mused. _Little Meg discovered your home AND that you are alive. What's to stop her from revealing you? Of gaining some reward for your life? _The thoughtful voice grew angry. _What a fool, you are! YOU the Sultan's assassin, the torture mastermind, the ever-so-secretive Phantom living in the cellars and a _girl_ finds you! _

_"_What would you have me do?" Erik replied to the thoughts in his head.

_Get rid of her._

"No, she's a child. A brat really. Always has been," he paused to rip his mask off and look at it. He rubbed the worn mask with his gloved thumb. "And she is Josef's daughter." The voice didn't reply and Erik thought of the past as he continued his descent to his home. He wouldn't kill the ballet rat... at least not yet.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 10**

**September 1882: In the Opera House, Box 5**

That night, silently, Meg slipped out of the dormitory and past her mother's room at the end of the hallway. In bare feet and her dove grey shawl, she held the mask wrapped in his handkerchief close to her. The theatre at night became eerie without the sound of music and voices to fill its vast empty space. Dodging the watchman's lantern, she snuck into the theater proper and headed towards the first tier of boxes on the wings. Carefully she turned the latch of Box Five and found it unlocked.

With a held breath, she opened the door enough to slip inside. The curtain blocking the view of the main audience had been drawn shut leaving the room pitch black. She stepped further into the room and bumped into a chair. Feeling for the bottom of it, she pulled the wrapped mask out and set it upon the chair. She thought she saw a faint white outline of the half mask staring back at her from the seat of the chair. Behind her the latch on the door locked from the inside. She drew in a breath and listened. She thought she heard the soft rustle of the curtains, but wasn't sure until two footsteps sounded on the rug.

"Why did you keep it?" said a voice in front of her. The mask turned and hovered slightly in the air.

"You've been kind to my mother and I," Meg replied quietly. "We owe you some small amount of compassion."

"You don't," he said honestly. He had paid his debt to Madame Giry for saving his life upon arriving in Paris, and yet here her daughter felt compelled to save him. She owed him nothing. "I brought your mother misery that night."

"And she betrayed you to Raoul out of fear of what you were doing and are capable of," Meg replied. "She did it because she couldn't find another way to stop you from hurting yourself and everyone here." Meg shook her head. "She won't tell me why she did it in the first place. So, I didn't tell her about the mask."

The Phantom ran his thumb over the mask's face. The empty eye stared back at him. Unlike the worn mask he had been wearing over the past month, the pristine white mask he had fashioned himself. The older one had been a gift of sorts, he recalled. Now the empty eye socket of the mask stared back at him as if questioning his next move. _Will you or won't you? The girl is a threat. She is vulnerable now. She dropped her guard because of your honesty. She came alone. _Carefully he slipped the white mask into his black jacket's inner pocket.

"Monsieur Fantôme," Meg began taking a step towards him or so she thought. "Mother says you keep your promises."

"I try like any other man," he admitted not noticing her hand in the darkness.

"Then can you try to let Christine go?" she pleaded feeling her hand touch a fabric and firm body. The chest rose once and held. It surprised Meg to be physically touching the Phantom. "Let her go so we can live in peace without fear of you. This place has seen enough death and misery."

"I refuse to promise anything to a ballet rat..." he rumbled growing angry at her presumptuous gesture. She pulled away at his harsh reply as if bitten by a dog. He smirked knowing she couldn't see his reaction to her own. _Good, you should be scared, girl._ He dropped his voice to make it reassuring and comforting. "But I will try."

"Thank you," Meg sighed with relief. He sounded so threatening, but his last words offered hope. Meg let her guard slip having achieved her goal of a promise of peace. Suddenly a gloved hand gripped her throat and her hands flew up to claw at the hand. She gasped trying to breath but the hand squeezed tighter.

"Remember, little mouse," he breathed closing the gap between them. _Too easy, little mouse. You should never trust me_. He smiled hearing her whimper in pain. "Utter my name once to anyone, tell them that I live and can be found, and I will break your pretty little neck. Understood?"

He squeezed again making it difficult for her to respond. He felt rather than saw her head slightly bob up and down with difficulty. Until he let go, Erik hadn't realized he had lifted her off the ground. She fell awkwardly to her feet and doubled over coughing for air.

"Better run to your mother's skirts, mademoiselle," he sneered as he opened the door and walked out of Box Five into the dim hallway. By the time Meg recovered even to breath evenly, the Phantom had disappeared.

"You're life is in _my hands_, sir. You shouldn't threaten the one person who holds it," she muttered with difficulty under her breath. The faint light from the hallway spilled into the box. She found her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders as she nearly ran out of the box. A taunting laughter seemed to echo in her ears; it's owner, however, felt a tug of anger at the truth in her words. His existence belonged to another once again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 12**

**November 1882: Dormitories of the Opera House (or The Loss of a Friend)**

A sickness swept through Paris that autumn. Raoul had taken Christine away as she had told him he would, or so everyone assumed. Granted, Erik had made no attempt to contact her since their last meeting. He didn't know that Christine had tried to leave a letter for him. Having found the passageway closed, she had given up and left the letter there. It had fluttered down the alley never to be opened.

Because of the sickness – a terrible fever that seemed to spread on the wind itself - threatening the city, the Opera had chosen to close its doors to prevent the spread of further contamination. Firmin lamented the loss of income and had retreated to the countryside to lick his wounds. Except the sickness had spread to the theater and infected its members.

As he checked his hidden passageways and trap doors, he found Little Giry returning to the dormitories with a basket. She looked paler than usual with the skin drawn over her high cheekbones. Since no one had threatened his home, he assumed she had kept her end of their strange bargain. Curiosity pricked him and a small pinch of guilt at their last meeting compelled him to follow the young woman. She entered their room but failed to shut the door properly. It stood slightly ajar letting faint light out into the hallway. Because of the hour and the dismissal of the _corps de ballet_ from the building, Erik knew Meg and her mother were the only ones in that part of the opera house. They had nowhere else to go. He leaned against the wall and peered through the slit in the doorway. He had come to terms with Little Giry keeping his secret and had concluded that learning more about her would benefit him. A soft glow from candle light flickered on the wall. Occasionally a murky shadow flitted across the crumbling plaster.

"Mother? Are you awake?" A pause. "I have brought you soup."

"Meg... You should go."

"No, mother. I said I would take care of you. Now, can you hold this? Good. Shall I tell you of the latest news?"

"No, I do not wish to hear of more death and sadness... Read to me, please, _mon petite_."

A shuffle, a scrape, and the flutter of pages being turned – the sounds carried faintly in the silence. He listened as Meg began to read. At first, Erik did not recognize the text. It sounded... well, unbecoming of a young lady and definitely not something someone would or should read to the ill.

"Meg, while Zola's _Nana_ may be interesting to you," Madame Giry interrupted. Her feeble voice became firm. "I prefer something less of our times. Such drivel to believe a strumpet can sing and dance so well without any aid." The stubborn haughtiness that was Madame Giry tinged her last sentence. Erik half-smiled at the old woman's panache.

"Sorry, _Mother_. I didn't mean to upset you. Everyone was talking of it, and I thought." A short pause as if Meg had shrugged her shoulders. "What would you prefer I read?"

There was a long pause. "Maguerite... Did I tell you how we found _him_?"

"No, mother. You haven't." Erik held his breath. Antoinette had meant him and their first encounter. "But you should rest. I don't need to know."

"You do," the older woman responded steadfastly and fell into a coughing fit. There was a pause and a shifting of something. "_Merci, mon petite_. The Lord has blessed me with such a caring daughter." There was silence once more before Madame Giry spoke again. "He had fallen in with gypsies outside of Paris. They had locked him in a cage. Your father had taken me there to scare me, I think. We were young, having both met near the opera house."

"Him a worker who helped build Garnier's majestic house dedicated to music and you a young ballerina who caught his eye."

"Yes... but when we saw him, a grown man battered and bleeding, chained to his cage bars like one of those elephants or lions... Yes, like a lion. The anger in his eyes frightened another woman there." There was a pause. Erik vaguely remembered that day. He rubbed his wrists remembering the chaffing iron's bite, the fainting woman's scream, and a young Antoinette's steady gaze. "But I saw only pain. I pitied the man. I clung to Josef later and begged him to do something. He promised he would."

"What did Papa do?" Meg said eagerly.

"We returned that night. Josef had tools to free the man hidden in his jacket. I refused to let him go alone," Madame Giry explained. She chuckled but a cough racked her body instead. When she recovered, Antoinette continued. "We snuck into the camp under the moonless sky and worked open the lock of the cage easily. The gypsies had figured not on their prize escaping. His shackles kept him from escaping, but not from others releasing him from his cage. We carried the man away to safety... to recover underneath the Garnier's house."

Erik noted that Antoinette had left out his primal reaction to their attempt to help him. Wounded and bleeding, Erik had fought Josef thinking him another gypsy because of his dark coloring. Antoinette had struck him with Josef's wrench thereby subduing him. When he had recovered, he had found himself lying on a makeshift pallet in the basement of the Opera house. They had given him so much - food, water, a place away from the taunts and jeers, quiet care, and eventually the half mask made of pristine white ivory. Unconsciously, Erik touched his mask remembering it. Antoinette had tied the ribbons into place while Josef had held him up. He cried that night realizing again that all of his confidence came from hiding his face.

Weeks later, Josef had talked with his employer and was able to procure Erik a job working in the basements and under the stage. Antoinette had realized his penchant for creating and love of music. She had given him the unstrung violin rejected by the first violinist after a rehearsal. The pair had continued to help him until he drew away from them both. They had a small child. He felt they no longer needed him in their lives. He was a grown man and could survive on his own. After Josef died and Antoinette had her accident, Erik secured her the job with the managers as the _corps de ballet_ instructor. It was his first act as the Opera Ghost. He had given Antoinette small gifts over the years on the anniversary of Josef's death. _I'm still indebted to you_ _both, _he thought rubbing at his exposed eye. For a man with no scruples, Erik found he could feel remorse. A tear trickled down between his deformed features and the smooth interior of the mask.

"We did it out of pity," Madame Giry said in a weak voice.

"Perhaps, Mother, but you did it. You saw a man and sympathized with his plight. You did it more out of compassion for your fellow man than pity, no? You did the right thing."

"Did we, Maguerite? We saved him... and he turned to... to murder. To hate. If only we had known..."

"You didn't know he would do these things back then. At the camp, he was a man who needed love and you and papa gave it to him. You were good Samaritans saving another from a hellish life like that. You… He was like Lazarus, given a new life. Oh, mother, don't cry." There was a pause. Meg's voice was softer. "Love changes us. You have always told me so. His love for Christine... it consumed him and drove him mad. You couldn't have known he would do such evil deeds so many years ago."

"He told us... once of the things he had done in a land far away. We knew, Meg. _We knew and we did nothing_." The desperation in Antoinette's voice struck Erik painfully. He had been drunk that night with Josef. He hadn't meant to ever tell anyone of the Sultana, the Sultan, and their twisted desires.

"Mother, please stop crying. You'll only weaken yourself." There was sniffling and Meg's murky shadow played upon the plaster again before disappearing. The question she asked, however, shook Erik out of his guilt. "Was he forced to do such evil things?"

"Yes... It's why he fled. They wanted to kill him to prevent him from revealing any secrets." A coughing fit gripped Madame Giry again, and it lasted a long time. Her voice was weaker than before. "Meg, take care of your father's grave and attend mass like the good girl you are. Don't give up your dream for anything."

"I won't, mother. I promise."

"Meg... if he lives, for I doubt he's dead, and you see him... be wary but... tell him I cherished his friendship."

There was a pause again and Erik wondered if Meg would reveal her secret. "He's dead, mother. They found a body by the lake."

"Ah, my lovely girl... You do not know him. That man..." There was a sigh followed by another series of coughs. "Marguerite, my sweet child... He promised me you would marry an Emperor."

"Mother, I don't want to marry an Emperor. I want to continue to dance." Meg's exacerbated sigh revealed to Erik that this was a conversation they had had before.

"Hush, child. Let your mother hope." Madame Giry's voice grew quiet. "I will watch from Heaven and send what love I can to you."

Erik kept his vigil in the hallway while Meg stayed by her mother's bedside. He listened to the coughing fits and then the slow labored breathing of the older Giry. She and her husband Josef had saved him from a second life as a freak show. They kept him alive when he had wanted to die. They gave him a job and purpose in life. Josef had been his first true friend and confidant. When Josef died of tuberculosis, Erik had slipped away from Antoinette and her daughter until they had need of him. But it was Antoinette who had aided Raoul. His hand clenched instinctively at the thought of his "friend" leading his rival down to his lair. The nerve of the woman... but Antoinette had been the one to raise Christine alongside Meg. Antoinette had hatched the plan to save him and not Josef. She had been the one to pressure Josef into letting Erik stay at the opera house. His hands relaxed. Christine was the daughter of his friends and only confidant. The woman was merely protecting her adopted charge and the opera itself. In her own way, Antoinette had tried to keep the Phantom from hurting himself as well. Erik lifted his head hearing soft sobs from the small room. The labored breathing had ceased. A chilly finger ran down his spine as if Death brushed past him.

"Farewell, Antoinette," he breathed not really caring if Meg heard him. He walked away from the door and headed towards the roof to cry under the starry night sky.

The next day Madame Giry's death was announced to the opera staff, managers, and _corps de ballet_. The following day her body had been buried. On the third day, Erik thought to check on the little ballet rat who had lost her mother. _Why are you bothering? She is not worth your time! _the voice said in a huff, but Erik had his reasons. His hatred for the girl had simmered to an annoyance at her unseen leash upon his existence. He had worn a collar before, and this one was looser albeit just as dangerous. She knew of his existence, but Meg was Antoinette's daughter. Perhaps an ounce of kindness was due to the girl.

When he found her, however, Erik felt the annoyance of being at the mercy of another creep into him again. He hated the girl for her feeble attempt to control him. But here, she lay on the cold stones of the chapel. A puddle of tears underneath her cheek lay on the flagstones. The rain that had threatened the day before splattered the stained glass window. It's warm, colorful light would offer no comfort to Meg. The faint glow of the prayer candles did little to hold the cold at bay. She wore one of her mother's black dresses instead of her more worn skirts and blouses of various subdued colors. The out of fashion dress aged the ballet rat considerably. Her tangles of dark hair were mussed and tousled. She looked like a broken doll lying upon the stone floor of the chapel. A pang of sympathy and pity twisted his normally powerful voice.

"Little Giry," he said quietly.

"Go away, Monsieur Fantôme..." came the muttered reply as Meg picked herself up off the floor. Strands of her hair had come loose from the simple braid down her back.

"I'm sorry for my intrusion. I came only to offer my condolences," he began.

"Then I accept them. Now go away!" she turned to where she had heard the voice. Her dark eyes flashed in anger and pain. The stone face of a sightless angel stared back at her from the corner. She gripped her head in her hands, her small fingers tightly tugging on her disheveled dark hair.

"Just... go away," she repeated in a meek voice. She didn't move when she heard the door to the chapel open. So what if another person saw her? They would leave. The Phantom didn't care about anyone. Why would he bother to come here, the place where he first seduced her friend? He was a fool to come. _Let me mourn in peace and without pity. I am fine on my own_, she thought to herself.

Another wave of hot tears began to flood her eyes. She cried softly into her hands no longer caring about who or what. She didn't hear the soft click of shoes on the flagstones drawing closer. She did, however, feel the warmth and weight of something on her shivering bare shoulders. She inhaled sharply as a hand gently brushed her hair and lightly touched her shoulder. Then the presence was gone.

Looking up, she rubbed at her red eyes. The person was gone whoever they were, but she knew. That voice... Dark. Melodic. No one else sounded like him. _He had sounded sad,_ she mused as she drew his cloak tighter around her. The faint smell of cold water and spices clung to it as if he had emerged from the damp cellar of a spice shop. Perhaps this small gesture of kindness was his way of honoring her mother and showing that he cared in some small way. The thought sent her into quiet tears as she hugged herself in the cloak. _Why did you have to leave me, Mother? Why did you have to join Papa in Heaven when I needed you here?_


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 12**

**November 1882: In the Dormitories**

Usually her mother scolded her for using a needle and thread by candlelight. Rubbing her blurry eyes, Meg realized why. She tied off the end and cut the thread. The mend would hold. Because the opera house was still closed by the government, Meg had had plenty of time to do all of her sewing. She practiced her steps on her own and talked to the few other people still in the theatre. She could read, but her eyes ached from the poor light. The night before Meg had snuck into Box 5 to leave a short letter for the Phantom. She glanced at the cloak spilling off her bed and onto the rug on the floor. The previous night she had slept fitfully. Nightmares of hands around her throat gave way to dreams of her mother's embrace before ending in ivory half masks appearing out of the darkness. The Phantom's black cloak lay by her bedside where she had flung it away from her in the morning. The mingled smell of her mother and that man was not something she wanted to experience tonight.

Meg pulled her flimsy grey shawl tighter around her shoulders and settled back into her chair to think. Christine's letter made no mention of her visits to the Angel of Music. The letter had come from a small town outside of Paris to the northwest, and Christine wasted ink on describing the provencal countryside beyond the urban sprawl. The usual apologies littered the letter as well. Christine also failed to extend any courtesy to Meg's mother. Her friend had grown and learned certain social graces at the theater, but apparently, she hadn't learned enough. Or the no one had bothered to tell Christine of her mother's passing.

Meg sighed and sat forward. Her friend had always been concerned about herself first, but since her marriage, Christine had become worse. Agitated, Meg began to braid her dark brown hair for bed. She had inherited her father's coloring - tan skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. Her rest of her features were her mother's - the lithe frame and high cheekbones. As she wrapped the ends of her hair, she wondered if she should attempt to turn in. She glanced at the cloak. She did not want to sleep underneath it again, but the nights had turned cold. Its warmth had helped her to drift off to sleep since her mother had passed away, but the nightmares were growing more realistic. Last night she had dreamed of dark shadows and melodic voices. Her fingers toyed with the end of her hair as she stared at the cloak. Absorbed in her thoughts and memories of her parents, an unexpected rapping at her door made her jump out of her skin.

"Who is it?" she asked quietly through the door.

Erik frowned. Who else would it be at this hour? Then his mind wandered to the little giggles and groans of men he had heard from the rooms of the ballet rats over the years. His lips then curled into a slow, lazy smile. "The cat."

The door unlocked itself and the room was exposed to him. Meg closed it behind him and leaned against it, barring his only escape. _Impropriety be damned_, she mused. _Manners didn't necessarily apply to the Opera Ghost_. She wanted him at a disadvantage, and she did not want someone to see them talking. She saw him tense, aware that she stood in his way, but he chuckled. She tried to hide her disappointment at her idiotic idea of having the upper hand here. Meg knew she was no match for the man in a fight, but she wouldn't cower before him. She raised her chin slightly.

"So the mouse has caught the cat," he said finally. "And what shall you do with him now, Little Mouse?"

"Return his cloak to him," she said pointing to the bed. She watched him pick it up and throw the cloak over his arm. "And... apologize for my outburst. I didn't deserve your kindness that day, but you gave it willingly. Thank you."

"Think nothing of it."

An awkward silence lay between them. Meg sensed that Erik had more to say, but an idea struck her. It was a crazy idea, in fact.

"Phantom... I... How do you deal with the loneliness?" she blurted out. She noticed his head tilt to the side like a cat questioning its owner. "I... am used to having everyone around me, but no one is here. I've always had my mother's presence nearby, and to not have her here as well..."

"Is like missing a part of yourself?" he finished for her. He sighed and shrugged nonchalantly. "You learn to live with it. The loneliness comes and goes as does most things." He moved closer to her hoping to pressure her into moving away from the door. He suddenly felt how uncomfortable she was.

"Phantom... would... could you... show me another kindness?" she hesitated. She looked down at her feet. Here she was asking a man who nearly killed her for his attention. Had she lost her marbles?

"Keep me company tonight." He raised his visible eyebrow. Her cheeks grew hot as she saw his expression.

"Not in that fashion, monsieur. I can't sleep through the nights anymore. Without mother here... and everyone else gone..." She pulled her shawl tighter around her and crossed her arms defensively. She closed her eyes as if to hold back tears. "It's so quiet here now."

He hadn't been thinking of _that_ when she asked for his company. He had been merely perplexed by her request. No one asked to spend time with the Opera Ghost. No one had the audacity. The girl had taken him by surprise with her humble request and he toyed with the idea. With Christine gone and Nadir busy with his own affairs, he had been left to himself. He owed Antoinette's daughter more comfort than a few kind words and his cloak for a few days. Little Meg may not be her mother or her father, he owed her nothing… but if he could ease her mind and gain her trust, perhaps her hold on his life would not chaff him as it did.

"Very well, but you must be silent like the little mouse that you are," he replied throwing his cloak out and over his shoulders. The motion blew out the candle drenching the room in darkness. He fastened the cloak around his neck and tried not to smile. Meg's gaze widened at his gesture, but she nodded once.

She turned, opened the door, and peered out into the hallway before opening the door fully. Erik strode forward as Meg ducked out into the hall and locked the door behind her. Unlike last time, he gently took her hand into his and led her back to the hall where he first left her.

"Close your eyes," he whispered and waited for her to do as he said. Reaching up, he pushed a rosette in the paneling on the wall. The mirrored panel, which no longer bore her shoe scuff mark he noted, slid open quietly to reveal a dark wooden tunnel. With a quick pardon, he picked Meg up into his arms and carried her inside. She didn't say a word and she kept her eyes closed like an obedient child. Erik smiled to himself as he pulled the lever to reset the door. Perhaps the ballet rat had some brains after all.

"You can open them, Little Giry," he whispered.

"Why bother? It's so dark," she replied standing still. His gloved hand took her's once more as he passed by her. She felt her heart skip a beat. _It's my nerves. I'm following a murderer down to his secret home. Of course I should be scared! _Meg thought to herself.

"Your eyes adjust over time," Erik replied casually leading the way. They walked down a makeshift flight of stairs, turned a corner, and walked down another set. He opened a door and crossed an empty room and led her down another set of stairs. She guessed they were in the third basement when they came to another trap door. Erik lifted the lid and motioned for her to climb down the ladder first. She hesitated before climbing down. The dank smell of wet stone hit her as she found herself beside the lake beneath the opera house. Erik didn't take her hand this time as he walked along the lake's edge. Meg followed listening to the lake lap at the shoreline to her left. Eventually they came to a wall. To Meg's eyes, he simply stood in front of it and a door magically opened.

"Welcome to my home, little mouse," he said standing aside to let her enter first. She glanced at him, a little wary. At any point, he could've killed her; for Heaven's sake, he could've refused her offer to begin with. He noticed her hesitation and without a word, walked inside annoyed at her sudden hesitation. _If she was worried about her well-being, why did she ask in the first place?_, his inner voice scoffed

"Excuse me, I have work to do," he said absently going to his desk in the far corner. Erik wasn't about to be a pleasant host to the girl. His game of trust did not require him to be a true gentleman; he didn't want her to know more of his secrets. The more she knew, the more she was a liability.

"Your home..." she said quietly marveling at its simple splendor. "It's... different. You changed some things."

"Of course I changed some things," Erik muttered pulling off his gloves. "My home was ransacked by a mob of angry Parisians. I'm lucky I didn't lose my head."

Meg brushed off his archaic comment. She found her eyes drifting from the still wounded organ to the piano, semi-filled bookcases, his desk, and back around again to the sitting area by the fireplace. The flicker of gas lamps mingled with the warm glow of the fireplace. She wandered over to the bookcases lining the wall to the left of the fireplace. They were partially filled with books here. Many of them were damaged but still useable. A few spaces on the shelves were given over to stacks of musical scores and random odds and ends.

"Don't touch that," Erik said eyeing her from the desk. Meg stood poised to touch a musical box topped with a monkey in Persian robes. She didn't bother to look over shoulder at him. He watched as she stood up and turned her attention to something else. With an inner sigh to relieve the tension in his body, Erik tried to concentrate on his score. He tapped his pen on the paper forming a ball of ink in the spot. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Meg rise on tiptoe to pull down a large book.

"You have so many books." Her tone of voice was one of marvel touched with awe. "How did you get them?"

"I bought them," he replied tersely. Erik wrote a note than a measure.

"Have you read them all?"

"Why do you care?" He lost his train of thought and irritation crept into his voice.

"I am simply trying to make conversation, Monsieur Fantôme."

He grit his teeth and tried to recall the melody he wished to write down. Slowly the song came back and he teased out the notes on the sheet. Meg continued to touch and examine his belongings. They weren't much, but Meg remembered the mob trampling and destroying so much. She looked behind her at the large black piano resting once more on sturdy legs. The throne where she found the mask was gone. The musical scores that once filled the shelves were less but still prominent.

"How did you do it?" she asked more to herself than Erik.

"Like any other man," he replied not looking up from his work. However, his pen hovered before marking one more note.

"But this place... Everyone was intent on murdering you. When they couldn't find you, they turned to your belongings," she muttered walking over to his desk. "I thought they had destroyed everything."

"They didn't." He scratched out what he had just written. He blinked and noticed her tan hand reach over and pick up the small enamel music box. His gaze traveled upward to see the curious but amused look on Meg's face. Her swarthy complexion and black hair in his domain seemed somehow fitting.

"This is beautiful," she stated looking at him with eyes as black as soles. "Does it play?"

Erik held out his hand with fingertips stained with ink. She placed the silver and black enamel device in his waiting grip. Earlier in the day, Erik had finished repairing the small music box. However, he had failed to fit it with a proper music key. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a small pair of pliers and set about twisting the peg where the key once attached. Letting go, the music box began to slowly unwind itself and played the simple melody Erik had constructed for its cylinder. He held the music box up to Meg who smiled and began to hum along to the song. When the melody ended, her eyes sparkled in the golden light.

"Where did you get this? I have never seen one like this nor have I ever heard one play _La Marseilles _before," she asked eagerly taking the music box from him again. He was grateful that her fingertips failed to brush his hand. "Such a shame it lacks a key."

"I made it," he said pretending to refocus on his composition. He frowned. There were more scribbles of nonsense than actual music on the page. The girl was proving to be more a distraction than he had anticipated. Granted, he had hoped she would simply sit and be silent. How naive of him to think the inquisitive ballerina would sit still. He caught Meg looking at the sheet, and she pulled away embarrassed. Giving him a half-smile, she set the music box back down onto his desk.

"Monsieur Fantôme, do you have a name other than Opera Ghost?" she asked looking him in the eye. "I feel awkward calling you Phantom when I'm standing next to you." He raised an eyebrow at her. She swallowed wondering if she had crossed a line and angered him.

"If I tell you, will you leave me alone to compose this evening?" he returned with the same note of irritation in his voice. She nodded her head. Her gaze made him feel uncomfortable. Meg reminded him in appearance of someone from his past.

He rose taking the sheets with him and went around to the other side of the desk to avoid her. He glanced at her, his good eye and better half in profile. "It's Erik."

Meg watched him settle down on what looked to be a throne turned into a piano bench and he fussed over the sheet music. She found him odd; nearly every chair with the exception of his organ bench faced the inside of the room. It was as if he was afraid of someone sneaking up behind him. He warmed up with a series of scales played flawlessly. Shaking her head, she crossed the lair to the couch beside the fireplace and sat down. Her unease at being in his presence faded as he began to play parts of his score. The song was mournful and haunting like the fugue by Mozart Dmitri had played to impress her. She wrinkled her nose remembering her old Russian beau.

Suddenly Erik's song became discordant and the hair on the back of her neck rose. Meg felt herself tighten inside as if he had pulled a string. The tension became intense until he shifted tempo and key into something more melodic and soothing. She stared at him with his blank mask and expressive face. His eyes were closed, and his body swayed in time with the music. Meg wondered if he was playing the sheet music or something from memory. She caught only glimpses of his face as he turned into the music to hear. Meg recalled Christine's comment that the Phantom's - no, Erik's music had been hypnotic. That it had filled the hole left by her father's absence. Meg thought she had understood when Christine had told her; she now realized how wrong she was. Then the melody and harmony shifted again.

Over time she gradually found herself lulled into sleep. The soft melodies and plaintive harmonies seemed to wrap around her tighter and tighter. Meg fought to stay awake in order to watch the ivory mask reveal the man. In the end, she lost the battle. Meg laid down on the couch to listen with her eyes closed.

When she awoke, Meg found herself still dressed in the same clothes as the night before. The soft touch of her pillow under her cheek and the familiar surroundings signaled to her tried mind where she was. Lying there, she wondered, _Did I dream last night?_ She huddled back under the blanket. She paused feeling it's texture. Half rising, she gazed down at the black gentleman's cape laid over her and crumpled by her sleep. Meg flushed feeling embarrassed and grateful. The Phantom - no, Erik had risked leaving his home to see her safely in her bed. He had carried her all the way back and left the cape, the same one she returned to him earlier._ He didn't kill me in my sleep… _she mused.

"So I didn't dream it," she muttered flopping onto her back to stare at the ceiling. Fingers of pale blue and rosy pink crept through the window. Meg realized her mother would scold her for being so bold with Erik, but a part of her felt it was right. She wished her mother was still here, to give advice or a hug in the private of their rooms. As the ballet mistress, Antoinette refused to show any weakness; as mother, she knew how to soothe and heal with words and compassion. Meg let the tears trail down her face while she stared and wished for her mother.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 13**

**December 1882: Auditorium of the Opera House**

"Take a break!" called out Madame Webber from the wings of the stage. The ballerinas practically fell into heaps were they stood. Having re-opened the opera house with performances of the Italian's_ Aida, _rehearsals had shifted to focus on the next series of grand programs for the season_ - Coppélia _and _Madame Favart. _ Because of the medical ban, the new ballet mistress and chorus director was intent on doubling up rehearsals to make up for lost time. Madame Webber, a well-trained dancer from Russia, had been hired upon La Sorrelli's suggestion.

When the ballet rats weren't rushing about on stage, they gossiped about the M. Webber. She walked with a slight limp that forced her to use her cane as more than a simple tool to direct the girls. She also spoke French with a strange accent. The rats were smart enough to realize M. Webber's vocal lilt did not match that of the new baritone who indeed was Russian. Gossip fueled rumors flew from one mouth to waiting ears and then onto the next. Meg tried to stay from the crackle of rumor humming in the air. She heard everything from M. Webber being the bastard descendant of Maria Taglioni to the lovechild of the Russian czar. Her friends Cecile Jammes and Marianne St. Michel had help to pass those rumors along, but Meg chose to stay out of the discussion. After what happened, she found speaking untruths about others left a foul taste in her mouth. She watched the woman with her graying auburn hair approach M. Reyer. Meg had found it easy to respect the middle-aged woman, but she wondered if Webber truly deserved the position. M. Webber seemed to have gained the respect of the aging orchestra conductor already.

With a sigh, Meg rose to feet opting to end her stretching to walk into the stage wings. Rather than rehearse in the dance studio, M. Webber had chosen the auditorium stage for the afternoon rehearsal. Leaning against a makeshift wall, Little Giry wondered if the Phantom had found his cape. Like he had instructed her with his mask, she had snuck out in the early morning hours to deposit his cape in Box 5. She hadn't dared to return to the box over the past week to see if her idea had worked.

Her mind wandered to a more recent discovery. As she had cleaned the small room she shared with her mother, Meg found her mother's diary in a secret cubby hole in the floor. The rug had somehow rumbled underneath the bed's edge. Leaning over to fix the rug, Meg had noticed the discolored board that didn't quite match the rest of the floor. The rug had served to conceal it for so many years. Prying up the board, she had found her mother's diary and her father's pocket watch along with a beautiful string of pearls.

Opening the diary, Meg's eyes grew wide. The first date began well before her birth; after reading the first entry, she found it started around the time her mother had married her father. The diary's last entry was made in August of that year, only a few weeks before Mdm. Giry passed on. Meg had immediately returned the diary, her father's pocket watch, and the string of pearls back into the cubby hole. _I will wait until this evening to read the diary… Perhaps I can learn something about my Papa, _she thought but her hands paused holding the board. _Perhaps… I can learn something about Erik as well. _

That evening she started to read the diary. The insight into her mother's life was… both amazing and heartbreaking. Her mother's honesty in written words… Meg ached for her mother's presence, but she realized the book was a balm for that ache. However, to her dismay, her mother did not share much about her father. In regards to the Phantom, so far, there had been only two entries - the first was a passing reference to rescuing a poor soul from a gypsy camp and the second to the astonishing survival of that man.

Her mother marveled at how the man - beaten, bloodied, and despairing - had survived in spite of it all. Her mother wrote, _Last night the man in the cellars we saved tried to end his life. When we found him this morning, we stopped the bleeding and bound his already wounded wrists. How he managed to do this is beyond Josef and I. He has yet to speak to us even though we know he can speak. Perhaps he is afraid? He cowered from us, covered his face when he had the strength to do so. Eventually I found an unused mask among the old ballerini costumes. Josef cut the mask in half to fit the man's deformed face. To my and Josef's surprise, the poor, inert creature __became__ a man before our eyes. He seems stronger although still in despair._ _He doesn't cower anymore. The transformation from the imprisoned husk of a creature resembling a man to the semblance of one of God's creatures amazes me. What other surprises from this man will be in store for us?_

"Ah, Meg, the woman I wanted to see," said a familiar sleepy voice from the wings drawing Meg out of her thoughts on the diary. The bright blond hair underneath the brown cap framed the pale blues of Dmitri. His smile seemed feral as he approached the resting ballerina.

"What do you want, Dmitri?" Meg asked feeling her body tense. The young stagehand who worked in the catwalks above had been her last lover. A pang of hurt struck at the memory of happier times with him.

"To talk," he replied settling himself on the wall opposite her. Dmitri slid his hands into his pants' pockets as if to appear nonchalant. "I was watching you."

"Were you?" Meg couldn't help but reply dryly. All of the stagehands watched from the catwalks in order to better see down the tops of the ballerinas during rehearsal. You'd think after seeing scantily-clad girls day in and day out they would tire of their lame attempts to be secretive voyeurs. Honestly Meg found them worse than the misogynistic artist who occasionally came to sketch their rehearsals.

"You seem to have grown more beautiful, Meg," he replied as he reached an arm out to lean beside her. "I found myself missing you upon my arm... and your sweet lips upon mine."

"You had me until Anjelica caught your wandering eye." She let her bitterness at this betrayal of trust lace her words. Dmitri had been a good lover until Anjelica joined the troupe last year. Meg had ignored the flirtatious looks Anjelica gave her then beau. Meg had ignored Dmitri staring at Anejlica whenever she was nearby. Meg didn't ignore the situation any longer when she found Dmitri and Anjelica prior to the New Year's masquerade in the heat of passion behind the backdrops one afternoon.

"Let's not talk about her. Why don't we talk about us?" he offered reaching out to brush a stray wisp of her hair back into place on her head. Dmitri lowered his voice. "I've missed you, Meg. You were always so good to me and knew how to please me best. With your mother gone, you must be feeling lonely." He leaned in closer expecting a kiss or some other sign of affection. He didn't expect Meg's well-placed knee to his groin.

"How dare you," Meg seethed through clenched teeth at the young man on the floor. She struggled to keep her voice low so others wouldn't hear. "You snake in the grass! You liar! Deceiver! How dare you try to pray on my emotions and assume I would deign to return to you! Anjelica deserves better than you."

Meg stormed off further into the wings to walk off her anger before the break was called to an end. She wanted to go back and scream at Dmitri. She imagined dragging his pathetic body out onto stage and announcing to everyone present that Dmitri was less than respectable in uncouth words. She could go and find Anjelica to tell her that her current beau had propositioned her. She could tell the other ballerinas and drag Dmitri's name in the mud. On the other hand, Meg was not that kind of person. Dmitri would hang himself in time with his antics. Anjelica's ignorance of his lasciviousness was her own problem. Meg had learned her lesson and Anjelica would as well.

"Mademoiselle Giry!" a strange voice called out making her stop and turn to see a turbaned man approach in the busy hallway. Meg noticed the wake of people that pressed themselves to the walls to avoid the obviously angry ballerina. She felt a tinge of embarrassment. "A word please."

"Monsieur?" Meg addressed him. He was tall or seemed so because of his headdress. A smart black beard of wiry hair set off his dark face and his dark brown eyes seemed amused.

Nadir smiled at the young woman. She was pretty when anger didn't furrow her brow. In one smooth motion, he bowed and produced a letter with a black seal to the ballerina. "A mutual friend wishes to speak with you this evening."

When Meg didn't take the letter, Nadir continued, "Our friend is rather private in his affairs, but he requests your aid in composing the ballet for his most recent operetta." Nadir winked at her.

"Oh! You mean the composer!" Meg said as one of Eleanor's girls walked by with another ballerina. She took the letter from the strange man. She thumbed the ominous black seal. "Is he well?"

"As well as can be expected," he replied sincerely. Meg gave the man a quizzical look wondering if his words were true. She wasn't sure what constituted "well" for a supposedly deceased Opera Ghost. "I will escort you to his home this evening. Meet me in the foyer at 6pm."

"Wonderful. Thank you, Monsieur... I'm sorry, I fear you have me at a disadvantage," Meg admitted with a hint of curiosity overpowering her embarrassment. we have yet to be formally introduced."

"Ah, yes. We have yet to be formally introduced," he replied with another warm smile. Yet he didn't seem to mind formalities. "Call me Daroga, Mdm. Giry, and remember, 6pm. Don't be late." He dipped his head towards her again and turned on his heel to walk back down the hallway. The strange meeting garnered Meg a few odd looks and shrugs. She looked down at the letter.

Before Meg could tear it open, the scramble of ballerinas and the sharp call of Madame Webber drew her back to the stage. Carefully she folded and tucked the letter into her practice costume's bodice as she rushed to the stage. The rest of rehearsal she tried to focus on her pointe work, but Meg found her curious mind returning again and again to the letter. Its sharp, folded corners poked at her skin when she moved a certain way. When rehearsal did end, Meg tried to rush back to her room.

"Mademoiselle Giry!" Madame Webber called out. The young ballerina stopped immediately and turned around. "A word _s'il vous plaît_."

"Yes?" Meg asked standing in front of M. Webber. She glanced nervously at M. Reyer who winked in a grandfatherly way at her.

"Monsieur Reyer and I are in agreement that you should play Frantz _en traviste_ for _Coppélia_," the ballet mistress said quietly. "I do so reluctantly because you are not ready for such a demanding role. You spend too much time up here when you should be feeling the music." Webber pointed at her own head with an extended finger.

"Yes, Madame Webber. Thank you. I won't let you down," Meg responded. The surprise left her astounded.

Madame Webber gave a slight frown. "It is not me that you need to impress, Marguerite."

With that, the _corps de ballet_ mistress dismissed Meg with a wave of her hand. Curtseying and giving a quick smile to Reyer, Meg rushed on hurting feet and sore limbs to her room to read the letter. How she obtained the role in spite of Mme. Webber's obvious disapproval would have to wait. Locking the door behind her, she cracked the black seal.

_Little Mouse, I request your assistance and knowledge of ballet to complete my score. Please join me this evening for dinner. Trust the Persian. He is a friend. – the Cat_

Meg wrinkled her nose as she read the letter a second time. His penmanship was horrible - all scratches instead of smooth strokes across the parchment. The red ink as eerie; she swore she had seen black ink on the composition sheets and on the man's fingertips. Why use red? Meg glanced out the window at the sound of church bells telling the hour. With a quiet curse, she dove for her bedside. Pulling up the faded and worn rug, she pried up a floorboard and pulled out her mother's diary. She had decided to use her mother's trick to keep the diary and pocket watch safe again. Her mother's room had been given to a female manager to watch over the girls since Mdm. Webber had private accommodations in the city proper. Meg placed the letter behind the worn front cover of the diary and returned the book as if it were a precious saint's relic. Shaking herself out of her thoughts of happier times, Meg prepared herself for her formal visit to the Phantom of the Opera.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 14**

**December 1882: Opera House Foyer**

Promptly Meg arrived in the foyer at 6pm. Among the few loitering people, the Persian was easily identifiable. Underneath his long coat, he wore a fine tunic of green silk embroidered in gold thread and fine white linen pants. His muslin turban bore a small green jewel that matched his tunic. The only thing Parisian about the exotic man was his polished black shoes and white evening gloves.

"Good evening, Monsieur Daroga," Meg said approaching him with a smile on her lips. He smiled and extended his arm to the black clad ballerina. Her black hair was pulled back into a chignon but a few stray wisps of hair had not been tamed. The high-neck black dress, worn out of mourning he assumed, simply further accentuated her coloring and did little to hide her figure. Additionally, the soft bustle on her backside added an element of sophistication to the rather simple dress. She had loosely draped a worn knit grey shawl over her arms. _No wonder you stay in an opera house, Erik_, mused Nadir.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle. Shall we see our friend?" he asked congenially. Meg nodded in response and the Daroga led Meg out of the opera house. To her surprise, they entered a carriage. The Persian tapped the ceiling twice with his knuckle and the carriage began to move into the evening traffic. "I apologize for this inconvenience. Our friend is rather paranoid."

"No apology needed," Meg said relaxing as the carriage trundled down the street before turning. "Our friend does have his quirks and for a good reason, I imagine."

"Certainly," the Persian replied tugging at his sleeve and glancing out the window. "He... trusts very few people."

"So I've gathered from my mother over the years," Meg agreed. Curiosity tugged at Meg like a child begging for a sweet treat. Often she found it hard to say no to its demands. "How do you know him? I have never seen you at the opera before today."

"Erik and I," the Persian began than paused to smile and chuckle. "Before coming to Paris, we were acquaintances in Persia. By chance, we found each other again." It was a perfunctory explanation, but the Persian wasn't about to recount the lengthy story of his relationship with Erik to her. "Since 1876 we've been business partners together. Now I am a new benefactor to the Palais Garnier."

She colored slightly realizing that she had been seen leaving with him – a new benefactor and her a young ballerina. Rumors were sure to fly. Her embarrassment at such a simple mistake gave way as she realized Erik hadn't lived his life as an Opera Ghost entirely. He had lived in Persia and that he had a friend like the exotic Persian beside her. Meg couldn't stop herself from asking, "What do you do?"

"I have a small spice shop near the Seine. Erik has been a silent partner over the years providing money when needed."

"And now?"

"We have switched roles. I am the new silent patron of the opera house while he works for me," the Daroga's smile faltered slightly. He let out a sigh. "Monsieur Firmin and Fornier have enjoyed falling over themselves to make my acquaintance."

Meg laughed. "They do! I am not sure about M. Fornier, but Firmin will focus on other possible patrons after the season goes on. Msr. Firmin will stop pestering you once the opera is back on its feet." She paused and fretted with her skirt. "I always wondered what the Ghost did with the money he requested from the managers."

"He takes very little to live off of. Much of it he tries to re-invest either in my business or the opera house," the Persian offered. He rapped his knuckles on the carriage's roof forcing the driver to stop. "I hope you don't mind, but we need to walk back to the Opera House. We can resume our discussion once we enter his home."

The Persian escorted Meg out of the carriage and down the street. They walked in amiable silence, both digesting the information they had gleaned from the other. Questions swirled around in Meg's mind and she tried to keep her tongue in check. As they approached the Opera House, Meg felt a twinge of pain in her leg. She cursed mentally at herself for not taking the proper time to stretch after rehearsal. She had been in a hurry to prepare for this outing and had shortened her stretching to mere minutes instead of her normal hour. _I'll simply have to push through the pain and hope for a moment to stretch myself out, _she thought to herself as the Daroga led her down the alleyway beside the Opera House. Meg wasn't surprised when the Persian entered the same passageway Christine had used. She kept an eye out on the street in the dimming daylight before the Daroga helped her inside. When the door had secured itself back in place, darkness engulfed them. Meg heard the Persian fumbling and muttering before quieting. There was the sound of a match strike and a small hovering orange flame. The fire floated upward to a candle held by the Persian.

"There," the Persian said waving the match out. He dropped it and held his arm out to Meg again. "Shall we continue our conversation as we walk?"

"Surely," Meg replied taking his arm again. The oddity of the situation struck her and she tried to hide her unease. When she had walked in these tunnels before, she had become trapped in one of the Ghost's strange torture rooms. Stories of the Phantom's Punjab lasso and the grisly hanging of Joseph Buquet came to mind. "How well do you know these tunnels, sir?"

"Well enough," he said casually. "Here, this is where you went wrong last time." He pointed with the candle at the three passageways ahead of them. "You took the right tunnel that leads to the Tree. If you go to the left, you will find yourself in a pit that rises and falls with the lake. Go straight and you will stay alive." They began to walk again, and Meg heard the gentle lapping of water nearby.

"Where did he come up with the... Tree room? I've never seen or heard anything like it before," Meg questioned quietly glancing down the dark right tunnel.

"In Persia," replied the Daroga. "I will not tell you of Erik's past. That is his story to tell, but for your own well-being, I advise you not to ask him." The Persian frowned and stopped Meg. "Mademoiselle, if you value your life, take my advice to heart. The Phantom does not hesitate to harm others in order to protect himself."

"I will," Meg promised. The Persian nodded and opened his mouth as if to say something else. Instead he closed it and shook his head. She patted his arm and gave a reassuring smile. "He had the opportunity to kill me three separate times in the past few weeks, Monsieur Daroga. I understand that I am dancing with the Devil by making his acquaintance."

"He's more than a Devil, Mademoiselle Giry," the Persian said gravely. "He is a man, but he is also a monster. Treat him like a monster or demon, and he will not hesitate to end your life. His anger simmers too close to the surface."

Meg rubbed her neck unconsciously remembering his hands around her neck in Box Five. After the incident, she had stolen a large ribbon from Eleanor's stash of scrap pieces to wear as a choker and hide the bruises from the eyes of her mother and others. "I will do my best not to provoke him, Monsieur. However, may I ask another question about him?"

The Persian nodded and waited for the ballerina to compose herself. Opening her mouth to speak, a scraping of metal on stone made them both jump. Ahead of them, the hidden metal door swung open to reveal a faint light and the figure of a man. He stood with his arms crossed but being backlit, the Persian and Meg only saw his outline.

"I prefer visitors to my home to _not_ talk ill about me without my knowledge," the Phantom said ominously to the pair.

"I was simply warning her of your temper, Monsieur," the Persian replied coolly leading the stunned ballerina forward. "She deserves that much, doesn't she?"

"She knows of it already," he retorted with a huff. "After what she did to that stagehand, I believe she can handle herself in most situations."

"You _aren't_ like most situations," countered the Persian. "To be honest, I'm surprised she agreed to come. You nearly left her to die in the torture chamber."

"But I didn't," the Phantom retorted with a snarl on his lips. "Do you care to see it again, Daroga? It needs a good cleaning since I have been busy keeping an eye on _my_ opera."

"If you gentlemen are _finished_," Meg interrupted. She tugged her grey shawl over her shoulders and crossed her arms. Not out of warmth but aggravation with the men. Perhaps the Persian should take his own advice to heart and _not_ antagonize the Phantom of the Opera. She sighed in exasperation. "May I suggest we take this conversation to a place more civilized than a dank tunnel underneath a theater?"

Both the Ghost and the Persian exchanged glances. The Persian shrugged his shoulders as Erik turned to lead the way into his lair. The Daroga led Meg on his arm again into the Opera Ghost's lair. The odd moment of not having the Phantom drag her around but a courteous gentleman did not escape her. The Persian, however, stopped abruptly and pulled his arm away once they were inside the lair.

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle and Monsieur, but I must leave you. I have my own affairs to take care of before the evening ends," he said reluctantly admitted. He offered his hand and brushed her's with a formal kiss good-bye. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mademoiselle Giry."

"Likewise, Monsieur Daroga," she replied with a smile. Meg wondered for a moment if she wanted to be left alone with the Phantom again. Granted, he had returned her home without threats or bruises last time, but she had found the Persian's presence comforting. "I hope to see you again soon."

"Agreed." The Persian turned and took the candle back down the passageway to the outside world. Meg watched him until the Phantom pulled the door closed. The loud click of the secret door echoed in the cavernous room.

"Reconsidering your decision?" the Phantom asked looking down at her. His gloved hand lightly rested on the door handle. To Meg, his baritone voice sounded hurt like a lover having his invitation rejected. "You can follow him back out if you wish."

"No, you asked for my help," Meg replied trying to hide her unease. She turned away to examine the Ghost's home. The fire licked at logs in the small fire place and added warmth along with light to the gas lit room. She looked at the rest of the lair and noted the pipe organ still in pieces. Orderly pieces, but nothing had changed for the massive instrument. The small but elegant clock on the mantel ticked away the time softly. The desk, however, showed signs of activity. Various books were piled high on one end and composition books on the other. Sheets were haphazardly laid in odd places. Some were placed precariously over the stack of composition books. The small table beside the couch was laden with bread, cheese, a decanter of brandy, and bottle of wine with a second empty glass. A short glass still held a touch of brandy at the bottom of it.

"You look like your mother dressed like that," Erik said flatly as she settled on the couch. Without her knowing, he pulled a key out of his pant's pock and locked the massive door. He crossed the room to stand beside the small table laden with foodstuffs. She examined him out of the corner of her eye. He wasn't dressed in his normal finery of jacket and cape, but he wore the black slacks and white shirt still. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows to reveal thin but defined lower arms.

"Thank you, Monsieur," she replied feeling her sore legs beg for relief. He probably didn't mean it as a compliment, but Meg took it as such. "It is the one she wore to father's funeral when I was younger. She kept it probably knowing I couldn't afford one for her funeral."

Erik picked up the glass of brandy and examined the caramel-colored liquid. "She could've asked me for the money," he muttered into the glass before draining it.

"After..." Meg stopped herself from continuing that sentence. "Mother didn't want to trouble you."

"You mean she feared me?" Erik thumbed the glass. He had downed a glass before the appointed time of arrival in order to calm his nerves and temper. The plan hadn't worked as he hoped. Truthfully this conversation was not what he had anticipated for his evening with Meg. He had planned to immediately set about composing, asking her aid on a section, and sending her on her way with some of the foodstuffs.

"No... Well, maybe. I don't think she knew what to do in the end," Meg replied candidly. She played with the black lace on her skirt. Meg would have to spend more time reading the diary to find out the truth. "Mother cared about all of us. She was only trying to protect you from yourself, I think." Meg eyed the crusty half loaf of bread on the side table. "Sir, may I?"

"Oh, of course," he said setting the brandy glass down and sitting in the chair opposite the couch. Erik pretended to watch the fire, but his gaze kept glancing back to the small girl helping herself to the food. In a child like way (or so he thought based on his limited experience), she scooted herself over to the table and reached over the couch's arm to retrieve the crusty bread and smooth white cheese. She made a mess taking what she wanted before settling back down to eat. He looked away when she glanced in his direction.

"Why aren't you eating?" Meg asked the lounging half-masked man across from her. It was strange to see the Phantom looking comfortable in a chair. His bright white mask had smudges of black on its forehead that matched the ones on the man's actual brow. She chose to look at the good side of his face with its defined, masculine features.

"I ate before you arrived," Erik stated eyeing her with his good, left eye. The young woman then turned her attention to pouring a glass of wine from the open bottle. He didn't feel the need to explain why he chose to eat without her present and thankfully the food distracted her from prying into the matter. "Also, you look like you haven't eaten in a week. I prefer, and Nadir agrees, that you are an investment and must be taken care of if we want the Opera to succeed."

"An investment?" Meg nearly choked on her sip of wine. "I'm a business venture for you? And who is Nadir?"

"Ah, Nadir is the Persian you met today. He is the silent patron assisting the managers." _So much for avoiding questions_, Erik thought with a mental sigh. "And yes, since you work for us by way of the Opera, you are an investment. Nadir says Madame Webber sees potential in you but refuses to promote you to prima ballerina until she sees improvement. The managers disagree with the ballet mistress, but they are afraid to say such things to her face."

"Nadir is acting in your stead... so it is you to whom I am meant to impress..." Meg quietly nibbled at the bread. Erik's slight tilt of the head, a sign Meg took for his confusion at her statement, confirmed to her the strange elevation in her position to second lead. Madame Webber had no clue that Nadir worked for Erik yet the real puppet master had revealed his hand to Meg. So, she asked the question that had teased her a moment before. "So, you are doing this because you feel remorse for not helping my mother in her last days? Because you owed her your life and not because I deserve the position?"

Erik flushed a little then paled. Little Giry had proven to be smarter than he had anticipated. He also didn't plan on discussing this matter with her until he had found a way for Nadir to force the prima ballerina issue with Madame Webber more firmly. He had not anticipated for Meg to suggest that he acted out of … remorse. A monster didn't have a sense of guilt for his actions; he acted because he was compelled to. For such a mouse to suggest… that he… That he felt anything for Antoinette… Refusing to meet her dark gaze, he rose agitated and walked to the piano. He kept his back to her in the hopes of hiding the storm in him.

"Monsieur," she said turning on the couch to look at him. He turned his emotionless mask towards her by way of acknowledgement. Fear tickled her spine, but she swallowed hard. Her resolve was stronger than a niggling fear of a murderer or so she thought. "I understand you want the opera to be a certain way. I realize you may feel... guilty for certain actions in your immediate past. However, don't meddle in my affairs. I want to earn the position of prima ballerina. I don't want it simply given to me because you or anyone else think I deserve it when, in fact, I may not."

"They are not your affairs only, Little Giry," he said. The mask moved but without lips, the voice seemed to come from someone and somewhere else. "You are an investment in the opera I wish to save. Through Nadir, I've paid to help restore this place and essentially pay for your lodging and small stipend. You are a mere cog in a very intricate machine that _I_ own."

"Indeed, that may be, but I am not a puppet to direct for your whims." Meg's countenance grew dark. She was angry with him. Erik turned fully around to face the stubborn ballerina. _The foolish girl doesn't know what she's doing, does she? Oh, what a silly, pretty little thing..._ the voice in Erik's head mocked.

"Ah, but you _all_ are my marionettes here in _my _house," the Phantom said throwing his whispered voice around the room. "Foolish girl, you truly don't know who you are dealing with here, do you? Your mother knew her place. She followed _my_ instructions. Why can't _you_ obey?" He smirked seeing her close her eyes and turn away to cover her ears.

Meg felt queasy at the voice coming from above, below, in front, to the side, and then behind her. She stiffened feeling the ink stained hands settle on her covered shoulders. Her shawl had fallen at some point from her shoulders. The black fingertips matched her clothing, which made his pale hands stand out starkly. She didn't recoil from him even though her instincts screamed at her to run or reach up to claw at his hands. Instead she remained still as he squeezed her shoulders painfully.

"Why does the little mouse think she can control me? Me, the Opera Ghost? The deranged murderer of the palace Garnier built?" he teased as he whispered in her ear. He heard her whimper in throat, and the Phantom gave a rueful smile she couldn't see. He let her go, chuckling softly to himself as he rounded the couch. At that moment, he knew she would rise to run, but he was quicker. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her back. With his other hand, he caught her in a grip around her cloth covered neck. Staring down at her, he searched her gaze for fear and found only pity. His ire stumbled at the sight.

"I can kill you here and now. No one would be the wiser. No one else in the Opera knows the Phantom lives," he breathed feeling her pulse quicken under his touch. A single tear fell down her ashen cheek. She swallowed hard but didn't move.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 15**

**December 1882: Beneath the Opera House**

"Go on, do it." Her voice held a tremor belying her bravery. "Add another life to your murderous tally. Kill another innocent."

Meg's words hit him like a brick. He didn't realize her free hand had reached up and grabbed his wrist until he caught a small gesture out of the corner of his eye. Her thumb sought and found the faint, jagged scars exposed on his inner wrist. _So mother's entry was true_, Meg thought to herself. Courage strengthened her stubborn resolve to fight him.

"Since you couldn't take your own life, take another's," she whispered. Her eyes drifted up to gauge his reaction.

"What did you say?" he breathed. The hands eased their grip and Meg could see the monster inwardly pull away from her. The man seemed to have returned. He stared down at her dumbfounded.

"Mother kept a journal, Erik," she said as calmly as she could. Her whole body wanted to move in all directions, but she had to keep herself in check. Her thumb gently brushed the scars again. "She... she mentioned you tried to kill yourself one night. The first night you stayed here in the Opera House actually…" She swallowed again finding her mouth dry. "Shortly thereafter, mother and father fashioned a mask for you."

"What else does the journal say about me?" To Meg, his voice sounded weak, almost feeble from the blow she had dealt. The features of his face shifted from cold rage to uncertainty and anxiety. His hand around her neck trembled. He began to pull away, but not completely. His fingertips gingerly touched the lace around her neck.

"I don't know. I have not read much," she continued gently. Slowly she pulled his hand away from her neck. She tested her other hand and found his grip had loosened. Her fingertips tingled feeling blood pulse through again. "She only makes a note of your presence at first. No name given. Only simple comments like the man sleeps or his wounds have worsened. He cries out at night. Josef stays with him."

"Erik, I am your greatest threat, but, for my own reasons, I do not wish to be a threat to you. I want to help you," she said solemnly. Tenderly Meg took his hand into both of hers. "Papa would've wanted me to help you."

"I just tried to kill you again," he muttered pulling away from her. Her warm gesture contrasted so starkly with his cold and callous one he found the moment shocking. He searched her dark brown eyes expecting the pools of mahogany to contradict her words. The fear was still there, but now concern seemed to emanate from them. He walked away from her and settled on the piano bench.

"But you didn't," she replied turning to continue to keep an eye on him. "I'm sorry for upsetting you, Erik. What you offer is a beautiful gift, but I simply... Let me earn my own accolades for my actions."

The silence between them stretched out until the tension proved too much. Erik wouldn't look at her. His exposed face matched the expressionless one he wore. Just as Meg opened her mouth to speak, Erik began to play the piano. The song was dolorous and lilting; the melody repeated and shifted into more complex variations. With a sigh, Meg turned her back on the man and settled back on the couch. She had lost her appetite, but as the song ended, she found herself taking up another piece of cheese and the unfinished bread.

"I liked that song," she said more to herself than to him as the piano fell silent. Without a reply, the Phantom began a different song, one more joyful and lively. Eventually she heard him humming along to the tune. _Music soothes the savage beast_, she thought to herself in dry amusement as she reached for the abandoned wine glass.

"What are you smirking about?" came a flat voice above the music. His words caught Meg off guard, and she nearly choked on the wine again. So unladylike. "It seems I don't have to worry about killing you; you'll do it for me yourself."

She gave him a look at that. To go from murderous to withdrawn and finally humorous, she really did wonder who this man was. _So mercurial, saturnine at one moment and then… _she was at a loss for words. _What am I getting myself into with him?_

"I was thinking to myself about your love of music," Meg said finally finding her voice. "You compose your own music, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," Erik replied and stopping the song he had been playing. "I asked you down here hoping to get your opinion on my next work. May I play it for you?"

"Please."

As he played the song, Meg tried to imagine how Madame Webber could choreograph it. She frowned as the melody took a turn to the dissident and ruined her mind's imagined scene. She turned and looked at the impassive mask of the piano player. His body swayed in time to the music and she caught glimpses of different expressions on his face. As the song rose and fell, the dissonance ebbed and waned until it abruptly stopped. Erik sat back and stared back at her. He rubbed his palms on his slacks feeling awkward and was glad she couldn't see him do this.

"The song... How does it fit into the story of the play?" Meg asked. "The start is so exuberant and playful before turning into a drama. A battle of sorts that you ended without a resolution."

"Does it matter?" he rejoined turning away from the keyboard and towards her.

"Yes and no. What is the story of your latest composition?" His left hand ran through his hair in a nervous gesture Meg had seen her father do ages ago. "You haven't determined that yet..." She offered gingerly.

"I have an idea of the story I wish to tell. Something naturalistic, real," the Phantom muttered in frustration. The makeshift piano bench scrapped against the wood floor as he stood and walked over to the couch. Meg eased back and hoped her actions didn't come across as offensive to the man. She had tangled enough with the monster. He poured a splash of brandy into his empty glass, and he swallowed it in a gulp. "I want something veristic in the same vein as _Carmen_, but the plot is tangled. I have these ideas, but I can't seem to find the thread to unravel them."

"Perhaps what you just played would be better suited for the leads to sing," Meg offered as a suggestion. The Angel of Music stopped his reach for the decanter and gave her look. Meg shrugged. "I tried to imagine what Madame Webber would have the troupe do, and honestly, the second portion lacked the grace ballet imparts."

"What did it suggest?"

"A lover's quarrel. A conflict without humor but full of anxiety and pain. Like listening to an argument among friends or a duel of swords. Actually... " Meg paused and glanced at his bookcase. She rose and searched among the books. Erik watched and reflected on her words. He had written the "ballet" with conflict in his heart. It had seemed natural, fitting even at the time. He hadn't thought of it being untraditional for a ballet. "Here."

A book pushed up against his chest and he took it from the ballerina. "_The Count of Monte Cristo_?"

"You said you've read all of your books. Remember the part where the Fernand's son accuses the Count and challenges him to a duel? The part after that Mercedes begs Edmond for her son's life. Your song reminded me of something like that."

"I remember," Erik said letting the book fall open in his hand. The pages fell open to reveal the tight printed text telling the story of Edmond Dantes' scheme to exact his vengeance on his captors and would-be friends who condemned to a life of imprisonment. "Revenge has always been a good tale to tell on stage." He gave a half smirk as his mind began to draw parallels between himself and Dumas' fictional character. If he could not have his revenge on the world, perhaps he could exact it on the stage.

Meg turned and tried to stifle a yawn. He noticed and set the book down on the side table next to the empty bread basket. Glancing at the clock on the mantle, he cursed softly. "I have kept you longer than I intended, Little Giry. Thank you for your assistance. Shall I escort you home?"

"Seeing as I don't know the way out of here," she began to point out but left the rest unsaid. He walked over to the couch and picked up her well-loved shawl. It was soft on his bare fingers. He held it out to the young woman who took it from him. Wrapping the shawl around herself, Erik noted that while Meg was dressed like her mother, she did not look exactly like her mother Antoinette. Young Marguerite reminded him of someone else and it wasn't her father Josef.

"Come, I'll lead the way," he said feeling a buried memory touch the surface of his consciousness. Erik crossed the lair to a door past the pipe organ. A lantern rested on the floor, which he knelt down and lit from a small box of matches left beside it. He turned the dial to reduce the wick and returned the glass cover to protect the flame. He paused before standing and looked up at the dark-haired young woman peering down at him. The lace pattern of the grey shawl revealed touches of her black dress underneath. He noted the high collar of her dress and remembered his fingers gripping that slender throat. Twice he had held her fragile life in his very hands and a wash of guilt swept over him. He wondered if he had left fresh bruises over the one's he had given her earlier. Looking away, he picked up the lantern and rose to his feet. Erik reached out his hand but didn't look her in the eye.

Meg hesitated. He wasn't going to blindfold her this time. He wasn't going to drag her through the tunnels and passageways. With his hand extended, the Phantom offered her some ounce of civility and perhaps a small apology for his actions. As the moment dragged on, his fingers curled and he began to drop his hand. With a sense of urgency, she took his hand and met his gaze. She gave him a small smile and his hand a gentle squeeze of reassurance. The mask hid his right eye, but Meg sensed it held the same quiet apology she saw in his exposed left one.

Without another word, Erik led her carefully and gently by the hand back up to the Opera House. Unlike the other passageway, this involved tunnels, turns, and at one point, a ladder. Meg followed the Phantom blindly. _How far down are we? I know the Palais has multiple basements, but I have no idea where we are, _she mused to herself. Eventually, Erik stopped before a blank wall and turned to face Meg. In the faint light from the lantern, the little mouse waited patiently for the shadow of the cat to speak.

"If..." he paused and began again. "Would you be willing to return again?"

"If you promise to keep your hands to yourself," she replied a little surprised she dared to make a joke.

"I will from now on," he agreed and then gave a sad smile. The yellow glow of the lantern threw odd shadows up across his face and mask. "I apologize... It was ungentlemanly of me. I never intended to do that... But I am easily provoked. Nadir told you as much. You should not trust me."

"He did, and I am sorry for provoking you," her free hand unconsciously touched her neck. "You... weren't as forceful as last time so I won't have bruises to hide tomorrow." Her half-smile did little to ease his remorse. Shadows played across both of their faces from the small, flickering, lantern flame. To Meg, Erik seemed even more hidden than before, but it helped her to focus on the man who stood before her. She examined how his shirt had been unbuttoned and revealed a hint of a finely wrought collarbone above his firm neck. He had broad shoulders and a lean, muscular frame. In the confined space, she noted his height and how his figure leant to his imposing role as the Phantom of the Opera. _He would be like any other older man if he didn't wear his mask_, Meg thought casually to herself.

"Meg," he said drawing her dark gaze to him. He let his voice remain soft and melodic in spite of himself. To Erik, the shadows seemed to accentuate her lithe, feminine form underneath the black dress. A faint blush graced her bronze cheeks, which accentuated the reddish hue of her lips. The brown orbs flitted away and she fidgeted against his unblinking stare. "What are your reasons for not exposing me?"

"If Mother knew you were alive, she'd find a way to keep you safe again. You... saved my life once when I was younger. There is that. You... also knew my father. You were his friend, weren't you?" Meg rattled off.

"I was," he answered simply.

Meg nodded. "I thought as much." She sighed. "My family owes you so much."

"So, you are not exposing me to the murderous masses out of some sense of recompense?"

She shook her head and the bun loosened slightly sending wisps of black hair free. Meg's cheeks grew redder, which Erik found oddly satisfying.

"Partly," she hedged. She played with the ends of her shawl over her shoulders as she contemplated whether she should be honest in this dark tunnel or keep her reasons to herself. Meg realized with a sigh that she needed to appeal to his ego as much as possible. She needed to give him a several sound reasons to trust her. "With _Don Juan Triumphant, _the musicwas... heart-wrenching, probably the most moving work I've ever heard. Only a genius could twist a melody so…" She would've said demonic, but she knew he would take the word the wrong way. She tried again. "The world needs to hear your music, and your works will draw the people here, to _our_ home. My dream to be prima ballerina rests on the Opera House staying open. I can't achieve that if the opera doesn't succeed. So, in a way, I am your pawn in your grand scheme, but I have my own motivations."

Meg felt her courage and composure unraveling fast. Her thoughts had spilled spill forth. She couldn't look at him as she whispered her last reason as to why she helped him. "Also... if _she_ knew _I_ had been the one to send you to the gallows... well, I'd lose my closest friend, wouldn't I? I have more to lose than gain from saying you are alive to the authorities."

Meg had always been forthright. She felt a mix of guilt, pity, duty, and sympathy for the Phantom - no, Erik. Her confession, she hoped, conveyed as much to him. Keeping his secret wasn't a simple black and white affair; the decision was made up of shades of grey. Each layer had been weighed out, measured, and laid before Erik in order of importance to Meg.

"But you are making yourself a murderer's accomplice. If you are found out, you will be dragged to the pits of Hell with me," Erik replied simply. "Then again, you could simply plead that I coerced you into helping me."

"I could also plead the belly if need be," she added. His stunned expression made her panic a little. "Not with you, of course! Just that I can use it as a means to delay my trial."

"Indeed." This time they traded expressions. "I mean, you could use that plea. Not..." He coughed to dispel the awkwardness of the situation. "If you walk ahead of me, you'll find a door to a hallway in the first basement towards the back of the house. Reach up with your right hand and pull the small lever you find there. I'll stay here and shield the lantern."

"Very well," Meg replied. Erik pressed his body against the wall, but she still brushed against him as she passed. He felt his body tense at her close presence before relaxing again. With his free hand, he shuttered the lantern as Meg turned to look back at him. "Thank you for dinner, Erik."

"Thank you for your suggestion," he said in the darkness with the remnants of her in his vision. He heard the mechanism trip as she pulled the lever. The faint light in the hallway spilled into the hallway and for the briefest of moments, he saw the outline of the small ballerina. He thought he heard a soft good night before the figure disappeared and the door closed automatically. Erik blew out the light of the lantern and walked home to his lair in the utter darkness. With each step, he felt more remorseful for how he had treated Little Meg. His mind also toyed with how the young ballerina relied as much on him, the supposedly deceased Phantom, as he on her.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 16**

**January 1883: The Opera House (or **_**Letters Between Us**_**)**

When Meg had returned from the mass celebrating the epiphany, she found a letter with a blue seal stuck between her door and the jamb. She looked at the seal and recognized the elaborate coat of arms of the Chagny family. Smiling, she slipped her finger under the letter's lip and opened it.

_My dearest Meg, _

_I hope this letter finds you and your mother well. I apologize for not sending word sooner. Raoul surprised me with a trip to Calais to take my mind off of the opera house. The weather has been unfavorable, but the city is quaint. Calais reminds me very much of the sea I remember from my childhood. _

_I fear I do not know if we will return soon. Raoul has business to conduct here, and I fear, we may have to leave for London or parts elsewhere if Raoul cannot settle the matter. He refuses to confide in me upon the matter. Ergo, I am unable to determine if I will be available to give a private performance as requested by the managers. Please give them my regrets. _

_Dear Meg, I fear I may have given up one cage for another… I sorely miss your guidance and your mother's sagely advice in such matters. With heartfelt wishes, _

_Your friend, always, Christine_

Meg ran a hand through her hair as she read the letter a second time. Frustration crept into her shoulders and the tension rose to a painful degree. With a sigh, she tried to relax. Christine had not left her with a return address so she could not write back. Also, Meg realized glumly, she had failed to write back after Christine's first letter from months ago. Now with Christine gone to Calais for an indefinite time… Meg groaned. _I neglected to write Christine about mother's passing. She will not take the news well when I do see her. _

The ballerina rubbed the bridge of her nose feeling a headache come on. _Of course, Christine would not have told the managers either_. _I'll have to inform the managers. They will not be pleased_, Meg thought as she fussed with the locked door. She glanced at the letter again. Christine's normally fluid hand seemed to grow tighter as the letter went on. _Meaning she wrote this in a rush to post it. I wonder why… _Meg imagined first Firmin's reaction then Fornier's as she walked to the administrative offices. Mdm Chagny neé Daae drew a crowd; crowds meant money, which means a loss for the revenue focused pair. Meg groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose as the headache increased. The managers had a Hell of a time finding the new soprano and two tenors earlier in the season.

_If Christine flippantly promised to return to perform… and the managers expected her to come back, they may have already started planning something big for her. Probably something to coincide with a masquerade or ball. It would be like them to do such a thing… They are ignorant of prima donnas and their mercurial emotions even after dealing with Carlotta. _Meg shook the offensive letter in her hand. _Now this_. _Loss of revenue, less prestige for us. Christine is hurting US with her childish behavior… yet again. Without know it, she is squelching our hopes. _

_Does the Phantom know?_ The question came out of nowhere, and Meg stopped walking. She knew Christine had visited Erik when she was last in Paris since that was how Meg and the Phantom first talked. Thinking about the circumstances, Meg wondered if Christine had already told Erik of her possible departure from the city or troubles for the newlyweds. She doubted Erik would know about Christine possibly leaving for London though. He may even be pulling the managers' strings to orchestrate a return performance for his angel of music. A part of her felt obligated to tell him in person; the other part didn't want to. She shuffled as she forced herself to keep walking. The ballerina set her thoughts aside when she raised her knuckles to rap on the managers' office door.

Upon returning to her room, she paced back and forth. Her mother would have scolded her for wearing a hole into the already threadbare rug, and the thought made Meg feel a twinge of heartsickness. She shook her head and tried to focus on her options with the Phantom again. _I owe him nothing; yet I feel obligated to tell him in person. He doesn't deserve to be blindsided by Christine's childish ways… and perhaps he already anticipated such a move by Raoul. Perhaps he won't be angry…_ Meg thought desperately. _But, on the other hand, Erik still loves Christine. He mourns with a broken heart. Do I really want to see the pain there? To cause him more heartache?_

"Why do I care?" she muttered out loud. She knew the answer before she spoke the question. _Because I care. Because I care about others. Because Mother care for him in some small way. More importantly… _Meg stopped pacing and stared at the hiding place underneath the rug. Her father's pocket watch hadn't been wound in years, but she liked to imagine she heard the soft clicking of time passing underneath the floorboard. _Papa cared about him. He saw the good in the Opera Ghost, the potential for something great. Papa had faith; he believed any man could redeem himself… Why can't I believe the same thing? _

A soft knock from a small hand at her door made Meg jump out of her skin. In the silence of her room, it had sounded like the bass drum booming in the orchestra pit. Meg looked over her shoulder and saw an envelope slide underneath her door. Receiving letters in such a manner was not unusual; what was unusual, however, was the black seal staring back at her.

With her heart racing, she leapt and threw open the door. A startled, younger ballerina stared at her with wide-eyed surprise from the end of the hallway. The mousy brown haired girl shrugged and continued walking down the hallway. Looking towards the other end of the hallway, w few men in tail coats and top hats were flirting with a few older girls. No one else. No one in an opera mask. No one in Persian garb. Meg didn't know what she had expected to see as she slowly retreated back into her room. She locked the door before crouching down to examine the letter. Same type of paper. Same black wax. Same insignia sealing the outside. Picking it up, she opened the letter with her thumb and read the red scrawl.

_Little Mouse, I humbly request your presence this evening around ten. I trust you can find your way here. - the Cat_

Her back thudded against the door. Meg weighed her options. To not go would prolong the inevitable and possibly upset the Phantom. To go would mean she could tell him about Christine's letter or go, not tell him, and face his wrath later. She sighed before standing up. Now was not the time to decide. An afternoon performance of a few ballet acts from various works was to begin in a few hours. Meg began to stretch her legs and flex her feet in an attempt to concentrate on her own matters. She resigned herself to a plan by the time she made her way to the change rooms.

* * *

In the afternoon, Erik listened to the orchestra play a number from _La Sylphide _far above him. He would've dearly liked to have seen the afternoon show and examine the new members to his Opera family. Vaguely he wondered who was prima ballerina - one of the girls from the old troupe or a new comer who had surpassed the others? He had snuck into Box Five for a few of the rehearsals, but often he found himself having to leave his seat for the actual paying customers during the performances. From what little he had seen, Erik approved of the new singers and chorus members hired by the managers. The new soprano wasn't like Christine at her best, but she also wasn't Carlotta. The woman was older than Christine with a regal bearing on the stage and a maturity to her voice that didn't grate on his ears. She was good and sang with some passion. The tenor, on the other hand, sang loudly but not passionately. He reminded Erik of Piagni when the older singer was younger. Erik hoped that by next season, the tenor would find his love in the music and actually sing to captivate an audience. If not, Erik thought to himself, he could coerce Nadir and the managers into selecting an opera involving masks. He could take the stage to wow the crowd with his musical prowess. He had done it once before, he thought smugly. The smirk of pride on his lips faded remembering the consequences thereafter - a_ murder, an unmasking, a mob, and a beautiful angel gone from his world. An angel that returned because of a desire that wouldn't die... and left him again in his own personal Hell. _

Retreating to his rooms behind the bookcase, Erik wondered why Christine had not attempted to contact him. He wondered if Raoul found out but dismissed the thought. _That_ man was an idiot. Christine would've found a way to tell him. He had read the dailies and found no hint of an ad to O.G. or anything even hinting at a message from her to him. Perhaps he should place an ad to see if she was waiting from him to contact her. He shook himself remembering the smell of her blond hair, the feel of her body against his, and the quiet moans she made. She was a spot of light that day in his dark world. She had played upon his baser desires, touching and stoking his strings until... she said in her breathy voice her husband's name. _Raoul_. The sound galled at him painfully.

That day he would've forgiven her mistake, taken her away from Paris to parts unknown, to where they could sing and revel in each other. He wanted to take her in the tunnel that day, propped against the dank walls or laid out underneath him on the dirty floor. She must've wanted it too because she hadn't stopped him. She had clawed at him, breathing hotly on his neck. The moment played again his mind's eye and he fought his rising ardor. He would ignore the end in favor of his imagination giving him an alternate ending.

* * *

Much later, Erik found himself lying on his couch staring at the darkness above his head. Mind blank, he felt cold reality threaten his peace of mind. The few drops of Laudanum were slowly wearing off and his body craved more. Yet he couldn't bring himself to rise and find the precious little bottle of sedation.

"She doesn't want me," he whispered to himself. Voicing the thought did little to comfort him. _She never _wanted_ you, Erik. She wanted the Angel of Music, that messenger sent from Heaven by her father. She only wants to be close to you in order to live in a daydream_. The voice had nagged him over and over on this point whenever he sated his desires by himself. Still he held onto that last albeit painful memory. In vain, for he knew it would never happen, he hoped Christine would return to _him_ and not the angel who seduced her with song.

The soft chime of the clock on the mantle drew his attention. He counted the hours and realized Little Meg would make an appearance in an hour. _Perhaps I should seek out the night air to clear my head, _he thought to himself as he rose from the couch.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 17**

**January 1883: Outside & Beneath the Opera House**

Due to the moonless night, Meg found it difficult to find the passageway entrance from the alley. Dressed in her mother's old black dress and her dove grey shawl still (it was becoming a strange habit of hers but her other outfits seemed more threadbare than usual), she shivered in the unusually cold evening. She had been in a hurry and neglected to pull her hair back. Right after the performance, Meg had made some small talk in order to appear normal. Then she had dashed to the changing room and snuck to her room to retrieve the letter. From there, she did her best to seem nonchalant as she headed for the rear of the Opera House. She hoped no one had noticed her movements.

The church bells began to chime the hour of nine, and Meg cursed silently again. She had hoped to meet Erik early, simply hand him Christine's letter, and leave his home by herself. Because of her focus on this plan of hers, she had neglected a basic necessity of a ballerina. She had forgotten to clip her toenails before the performance. During a quick rehearsal of a movement in the studio, Meg had felt the toenail pop and felt that momentary flash of pain. Quickly, she had unlaced her slipper and wrapped her toe as much as possible. She fought the pain through the performance and ignored it as she prepared to find her way to Erik. She could feel the blood congeal in her boots in spite of the haphazard bandages under her stockings. Meg knew she needed to rest, but she was stubborn. She would heal. She had lost a toenail before and had survived horrible blisters. Meg wanted this business with Erik concerning Christine to be done as quickly as possible. _Maybe if he hears it from me…_ she thought over and over again.

As the last bell chimed, she found the indiscernible spot on the exterior wall of the opera house that opened the secret passage. Or so she thought. A black caped figure with a soft hat pulled down low over a black masked face emerged from the black maw of the doorway. She was about to let out a cry of surprise when his black leather gloved hand shot out and pressed a finger to her lips. Before she knew it, Erik had grabbed her hand and dragged her into the dank passageway. The door slid shut silently, and in the darkness, he swiftly led her back to his home.

"What were you doing out there?" he asked in an annoyed tone and whirling around on the startled ballerina. "I told you ten." His annoyance turned to anger as he found her staring at him. "Do you _enjoy_ staring at me?"

"I'm sorry, but I, " she began sounding meek. She shook her head while looking away from him.

"What were you _trying_ to do, Little Meg?" he asked again angrily He used her diminutive nickname and let it drip with condescension. "Tell me. _Now_."

"I couldn't think of another way to contact you," she shot back with a glare. "It's not like I can send another of the girls to you with a message. Also, what I have to tell you is important. Ergo, I came to you early." Meg left out the fact she was in pain and wanted to sleep a full night undisturbed for once. She held a hand to her head feeling the headache return.

"Erik, what else was I supposed to do?" she said sounding resigned. "The matter is urgent, and I assumed you hadn't heard. I needed to find you. How was I supposed to know you'd be there? I didn't even know you _left_ here or that you had planned on leaving before our meeting."

Erik let out a sigh of frustration. He should've known better, or at least he should've planned on problems in communicating. Her words, however, piqued his curiosity. Why would she seek him out before their appointed meeting time? What would send her rushing down here… to him?

"Come. Will you have a seat?" he muttered trying to sound like a gentleman but failing.

"No, I'm fine," Meg sighed and began to unbutton a few buttons over her chest. Erik's eyes went wide out of surprise. He was about to protest when she pulled out the letter she had tucked into her bodice. Little Meg held it out to him. Curious, he took it from her and walked over to one of the gas lamps to see better. She spoke as he read. "I didn't know if you heard… from the managers or however you gain your information… and I thought you deserved to know from me instead of finding out through Nadir or anyone else later." She paused for a moment to catch her breath.

"I'll leave once you are done reading it."

Meg re-buttoned her dress as she watched the Phantom read the letter again and again. The managers had already seen it. She had made it a priority to tell them that morning. They had been annoyed with her initially, as if it was her fault as the messenger. However, they appreciated her more after reading the letter and understanding her urgency in talking to them. Firmin had even outright thanked her and escorted her out of the office before Fornier began to cry out in despair over the loss of potential money. Firmin had shoved the letter at her before slamming and locking the office door shut.

Erik didn't particularly listen to Meg's short speech. He read and reread the letter with its fluid handwriting. His shoulders sank as he stared at the word "London." A part of him wasn't surprised; he had anticipated something like this shortly after Christine had left him. Except the part of him that had hoped Christine would return to him crumbled. Christine had no control over her life; she _had _traded one cage for another and her actions were no longer her own. Erik clung to the hope that Christine would not be whisked away to London, but the hope fluttered in his chest like a dying ember. If even she did leave France with her husband, he probably would not know. He may never see her again, and there was very little he could do for his beloved siren. Their song would finally die.

"May I have the letter back?" Meg asked quietly as she approached the man. She wasn't sure how he was going to react. At the moment, he appeared to be a dejected lover, which Meg understood. She sympathized with the man behind the mask. How often had she, the other ballerinas, or friendly stagehands been in Erik's shoes? She hesitated for a second before placing a hand on Erik's arm. "Erik... She made her choice. She has to accept the consequences and attend to her husband's needs."

"Indeed," he agreed handing the letter back to her. He wanted to thrust the girl away from him. As if sensing his ire rising, Meg pulled her hand away. _Another kind gesture? Is the woman mad?_ The nagging voice, so often sardonic, sounded actually surprised. Erik swallowed and tasted bitterness. "Thank you for showing it to me."

"Will you... be all right?" she asked looking up at him. The concern in her voice quelled the storm of feelings surging in his heart. He glanced at the young ballerina but looked away. He felt himself growing numb at the thought of Christine's indefinite absence and his lack of control of the situation.

"I will make do," he said with finality. He eyed the ballerina for a moment and considered if he should seek her opinion on his recent work as he had planned that evening. In the dim light, he saw her dark eyes catch the light. They stood out on her swarthy face framed by her loose black hair. He hadn't noticed her appearance that evening. She looked the same as she had the last time they met but there was something different about her. Indeed, Meg looked as vulnerable as he felt on the inside. Her hair, usually pulled back, fell in soft, black waves around her. She smiled a little at him.

"Now who is staring?" she teased making him look away. "I must return or I will be missed." Meg turned to leave and she failed to miss Erik's eyes shining at her in the light. She winced at the pain from her foot and tried to shift her weight off of her foot as she walked towards the passageway.

"Stay a moment, Meg," Erik's voice commanded. She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. "You hurt yourself tonight?" The question sounded more like a statement to her.

"I'll be fine," she said continuing to move forward. Yet a hand fell upon her shoulder to stop her. Meg found herself looking up at Erik beside her. "I'll be fine. It was my own fault really, and it will heal eventually. I can make it back to my room. "

"That's what your mother said following her accident," he replied sounding grave. Before Meg could protest, Erik released her and walked to the bookcases behind the piano. To Meg's amazement, the bookcase swung open like a door and Erik disappeared behind into the opening. Gingerly, Meg walked up to the bookcase door and peered around it. The illuminated hallway ended in a dark room from which Erik emerged. In the brighter light, Meg saw Erik more fully. He had a long stride and wide shoulders. He wore a long wig of dark hair underneath the cap that gave him a Bohemian appearance. On the right side of his face, the black mask had more definition, however, than the white and ivory masks Meg had seen before. The rounded brow gave way to stern eyebrows that shadowed the eye socket. The cheekbone rose in accord with the curled corner of the lips. The brow of the mask actually covered most of Erik's natural one and his nose. She peeled herself away from the bookcase as he approached. He seemed surprised to find her standing there, but he shrugged the matter aside. He held out a small wooden box of some gauze, linen strips, a bottle of ointment, and another bottle that smelled medicinal.

"Take them," he said in a matter of fact tone. Before she could protest, Erik continued, "It's not charity. Use them as an excuse to say where you went if anyone sees you. Since you need to rest, the composition can wait. I don't want to have an inattentive listener critique my work."

"Thank you, but I have supplies in my room," she muttered. Yet her fingers plucked the bottle of ointment out. She frowned. "Although… Maybe I borrow this? I am running low and I fear the other girls may have turned in already."

"You may," he said. He pointed at the other bottle. "Take that as well. It's a lotion with menthol in it to help ease muscle ache."

"I…" Meg began to protest, but the slight frown on the Phantom's face made her pause. "Thank you. That is very kind of you. I will return them to you soon."

"Don't bother. I can have Nadir retrieve more at a later date," Erik replied nonchalantly. He tucked his hands into his pockets to quell his desire to fidget. Meg's small smile of thanks was warm and reminded him of another from long ago. "You told me about Christine. It's the least I could do."

The smile faded as Meg set the box aside and held the two bottles in her hand. She used her free hand to pull her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The memory – an old one, one that hurt - tickled at him and he looked away.

"I'll escort you home," he said in a clipped voice. His offer startled Meg and Erik smiled at himself. He had caught her off guard for once.

"Erik, thank you, but you have done enough already," she began to protest. The shawl slipped off her shoulder slightly.

"Tut, tut," he said in a warm tone and turning on his heel. When Erik didn't walk past her to the passageway they had taken earlier, Meg stood still and stared at the man. He stopped and looked back at her. He raised the eyebrow on the exposed side of his face.

"Do I need to carry you home again? Or do you prefer to take the long way home and hurt yourself further? Personally, I'd rather _not_ have you stay in my home looking like a statue."

"I- No," Meg replied feeling a blush of embarrassment grace her cheeks. She hoped in the dim light Erik couldn't notice. He had caught her twice now in her own thoughts. _He's so… arrogant even when he tries to show some care. Now he's teasing me?_ _Did he tease Christine?_ She thought glancing up at him chuckling softly. Meg was used to his more dangerous and dark sides… but this other side surprised her. Maybe there truly was more to the man than his monstrous tendencies.

She followed Erik silently down to the subterranean lake. Meg stopped short of the lapping water and felt panic seize her. She swallowed hard to control her panic as she stared at the cold, dark liquid lapping gently at the manmade beach. She took a step back from the water, deathly afraid.

Erik struck a match and lit the lantern hanging from the gondola boat's arm. When he turned to look at Meg, he had to pause. In the lantern light, Meg's face seemed to emerge out of the darkness like a ghost or a scepter. Her look of fright puzzled him until he noticed her eyes staring not at him but the water. _Of all the things to fear in this world_… the nagging voice in his mind breathed slightly astonished. _The wretched, noisy, curious, stubborn, and prideful ballet rat… becomes a mouse at the sight of water? _Erik saw her take a second step back away from the water. _And yet she had waded through the water to the portcullis and found her way into my lair that night… _The voice scoffed at the brave and apparently stupid, frightened mouse.

"Meg," he said quietly to draw her attention to him. When she didn't move, Erik chose a more commanding and authoritative tone. "Meg." She shivered but didn't move. He chose a different tactic.

"Marguerite," he purred in a velvety tone, throwing his voice to brush against her ear. Louder than a whisper, stern for a command but soft to imply empathy, he mused. At that, she looked up at him. He held out his gloved hand. "Come to me. I will keep you safe."

His words moved her one small step at a time. When she was in reach, he continued, "I apologize, but may I pick you up?" Her pale face bopped in the lantern light. He easily lifted her up and set her inside the boat. He ignored how her free hand clutched at his shirt as he stepped into the water beside the boat. She didn't look at him but at her hands clutching the bottles.

The Opera Ghost shouldered the boat further into the lake before climbing in himself. Dripping he stood in the stern to pole the boat out onto the massive underground lake. He focused on maneuvering the boat instead of his passenger.

"You were expecting me to drown you, weren't you?" Erik teased. He kept his tone of voice warm and velvety like he had on the shore to coax Meg out of her fear and anxiety.

"No… I just…" Meg began and wet her lips. Her gaze drifted from the water to the Phantom working the pole of the gondola boat. "You fancy yourself a comedian tonight, Monsieur Noir Chat."

He let a chuckle escape him. "I assure you, I do not drown little mice or ballet rats in my lake."

"That's not…" she whispered but did not continue. "Where were you going when I arrived? To prowl the streets and alleys like the cat you are?"

"Ah, no. This cat prefers to remain aloof," he replied continuing their little jest. He also found an easy lie to tell her. "He sought out sustenance and perchance to sing to the moon. A cat cannot survive alone on his music."

"If only one could survive on what they love…" muttered Meg more to herself than to Erik. He tensed, however, hearing her. "When you leave, do you normally disguise yourself?"

"Normally… I do not," he lied again. He wasn't about to divulge any of his secrets to her.

"Such as delivering your letter to me this morning?" Meg let her gaze linger on the man in his black mask and cape. At some point, the soft hat had been thrown aside. She wondered when that was. She could not make out his expressions easily since the lantern behind him shone too brightly. He was, in fact, a dark, masculine shadow before her.

"Oh, no," the Phantom's voice took on a smug tone. "I can't tell you all of my secrets, Little Mouse." He smirked seeing Meg's reaction in the faint lantern light. "Suffice yourself with knowing young Rosalina is a rather gullible girl and easily bribed. I have my ways, Little Meg. There is very little I don't know about my opera house and its performers."

"What do you know about Madame Webber then?" Meg's question made him pause in his rowing and look at her. "You said you know your opera house well." She gave him a smirk as she challenged his claim.

_You sneaky girl_, he thought to himself.

"Madame Webber certainly isn't the Russian Czar's lovechild for one thing," Erik replied confidently. As he spoke, he imitated her friends Cecile Jammes and Marianne St. Michel, the main gossips of the corp des ballet. "Perhaps she really is the deceased King Albert's long lost bastard daughter. Or the widow of a famous American banker. Or the bitter ex-wife of a Prussian ambassador. Oh dear, have you seen her limp? Mayhap she was in a terrible accident!"

Meg tried to stifle a giggle. "You're as bad as them! You even _sound_ exactly like them!"

"Ah, but unlike your gossiping friends, I do know Madame Webber's history albeit only what was in the letter from La Sorrelli," Erik divulged. "The managers really should not leave important documents on their desk over night. Anyone can sneak in and read them."

"So, the Phantom enjoys bribing young girls, reading the managers' mail, picking locks of rooms he should not be in, eaves dropping on the troupe, and inviting aspiring prima ballerinas to his home under false pretenses of aiding in composition," Meg muttered to herself and shook her head. Erik noted that she tactfully left off "seducing beautiful singers and murdering men" from the list. He also noted the way her dark hair fell over her right shoulder. Against her dove grey shawl, he could make out the soft waves from her hair being tightly wound and bound for hours every day. Where the lantern light touched her, her hair shifted from black to its dark brown against the pure black lace of her dress. It held a warm sheen that stood out from the gloom surrounding them.

"A man has to keep himself entertained," he responded in a slight attempt to keep the tone of the conversation light. Erik turned the pole and let the boat glide to the stone outcropping along the wall. A series of stairs grew out of the outcropping and reached up into the shadows. "Here you are, Mademoiselle. If you take the stairs, you will find yourself in the cellar above. Hopefully you will not be seen until you reach the main level. From there, you should be able to make your way back to your room."

Carefully, Erik walked towards her in the boat and helped her to her feet. He deftly took the glass bottles out of her hand and set them on the outcropping. Then, before she could think, he took her hand and held her elbow to steady her. She exited the boat in a rush and seemed to breath a sigh of relief at finding solid ground underneath her feet again.

"I enjoyed your brief company, Little Giry," he said holding her hand still. To his mild surprise, Erik found himself speaking honestly rather than lying to appease his captor. "Hopefully next time I can play my composition for you or we can read if you do not feel up to the task."

Some of the tension between them had eased. Erik glanced at their hands – black leather holding onto tawny, elegant fingers – and he let her go.

"If you need to reach me again, leave a candle down here," he offered. He watched the little mouse with rosy cheeks like a hungry cat. She stooped to pick up the bottles, and her hair over her shoulder fell forward.

"That may prove difficult at times."

"Leave a note in your room then."

Meg froze and stared at the man with his black mask. The mischievous grin on the mask nearly matched the one on his exposed, handsome face. Surely he was teasing her; he wasn't serious. "In. My. Room?"

"I _can_ do more than pick a lock, Little Giry," the Phantom said in a low, suggestive voice. "So much more." Meg shivered and wondered if it was from the cold or the implication behind his words. The modern Mephistopheles gave her a small bow. "You should go."

"Right," Meg replied turning towards the stairs. She stopped with her ankle-high boot on the first stair and her skirt in her hand. She looked back at Erik over her should. "Thank you again and... I'm sorry for being the bearer of bad news."

Erik watched her climb the stairs and waited until he heard nothing. The boat's soft knock against the stones failed to echo across the still water in the cavernous cellar. Upon taking up his position in the stern again, he mused on the numb feeling clutching him. A month before he had accepted Christine's return and eventual departure. In that time, he had encountered the young woman and daughter of his only true friend. She had matured from an unpleasant ballet rat into... Someone else. Unbidden, her face in profile against the warm, dark curtain of her hair came to mind. She showed him compassion tonight and Erik wasn't entirely sure why. She had given her reasons, but there seemed more behind her actions this night. The nagging voice, his constant companion to his inner thoughts, was silent on the issue. Erik loved Christine still... but as he poled the boat back to his home, he wondered. He puzzled. He mused.

"If Christine's hair smelled of sunshine, does Meg's smell of moonlight?" he whispered to the lake.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: **All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

**A/N:** A quick thank-you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and / or followed this story. I hope you continue to enjoy the story. - p.s.

_**De petite souris a monsieur chat**_**: ****Chapter 18**

**January 1883: Dormitories & Stage of the Opera House**

_He is feverish and Josef fears the man will not survive the night. I am doubtful. He began speaking a strange language last night. The man had grabbed my hand at one point. He seemed to be pleading with me. Fear masked his features before he fell back asleep. Whatever this man has done… He regrets it. Painfully, he seeks forgiveness from the shadows. _

Meg continued to read the diary in the hopes for more entries on Erik. At first glance, she had assumed there had been only a handful of entries on Erik; however, as she continued to read, there were several. Often her mother wrote only a sentence about the man in the basement of the Opera House -

_He grows stronger day by day. _

_He is learning French quickly. Josef is already conversing with him regularly. _

_Josef has decided to have the man work with him. _

_Josef lets him incorporate new designs into the building plan. The supervisor has yet to notice. _

Meg flipped a few pages forward, and a word caught her eye. Greedily, she stopped to read the entry.

_The Opera House is finished, and Josef is over the moon with pride. We spoke last night of what to do about Erik, the man underneath the opera house. Josef says Erik wishes to stay, that he wants to learn more about music and life. Josef agreed to help him make a home beside the lake in the cellar, but I fear Josef is too giving. We have done enough for Erik… but Josef disagrees. _

_Josef will not tell me what Erik tells him… but I have heard snippets. Such as Erik having done despicable things in a land to the East. I heard the other day that Erik had threatened another work; he held him over the edge of the roof for simply touching him. Josef stopped Erik… This time. _

Meg puffed out a breath of air. _Yes, that's our dear Opera Ghost_, she mused. Her eyes skimmed over the next entry, and she saw nothing more about Erik. While she appreciated her mother's diary, Meg also cursed her luck. Her father seemed to have more of a connection to Erik than her mother; also, her mother's diary thus far only confirmed information that Meg had experienced firsthand. The small ballerina huffed and turned to rest upon her stomach. She set the book aside and rubbed at her eyes. They hurt from the poor candlelight as she read at night.

Picking the book up again, she glanced from the previous entry to the next. Her eyes drifted to the date. Then she flipped back to check the previous date. Her heart sank. There was a year missing from the diary. Meg began to read again.

_Much has happened in the past year. Josef has found work as a stage hand and I have joined the corps de ballet. We try for a child, but God has yet to grace us with one. We try not to despair and continue to have faith. _

The next entry was equally as short and again, a year later from the last. The entry following the second was similar. Then Meg noticed the fourth entry. It dated to two years later… and a few days after her father's death.

_I have grown out of the practice of writing. I do not know where to start. Our daughter __gives us__ gave us such joy. She looks so much like her father that my heart aches. I only hope she shares his spirit. _

_Josef… died in a freak accident. A catwalk gave way underneath his feet. No one could save him…. I found Erik in the chapel last night. He witnessed the accident – a fraying rope was the culprit. He had tried to save Josef, but he wasn't fast enough. _

_I don't know whether or not to believe him. Erik has given me no reason to doubt his word… but he is secretive, withdrawn. He lives below the opera house with Josef as his only friend. He says he will do what he can for us – Marguerite and I. He seem… to feel an obligation, which is warranted. However, I worry about Erik. _

The diary entries thereafter were meager. A story hear about Meg's childhood or her mother's laments about losing Josef. Meg couldn't bear to read the latter entries. Yet her eyes skimmed one.

_I am done. I will never dance again. Mon dieu, forgive me for taking your name in vain, but I had so much faith in you. Faith and hope that my dance could sustain all of us. My ankle is beyond repair says the doctors. Surgery is an option, but I lack the funds. Also, who would take care of Little Meg? No one. Who would watch out for the other young girls of the troupe? No one. I am at a loss of what to do. I cannot stay in the dormitories with my daughter and we have nowhere to go. _

Tears pricked her eyes and Meg wiped them away. She remembered those early days of unease in their small room in the Opera House. She was too young to join the troupe, and mother's injury had ruined her budding career.

_Erik came to me last night. He would help us. _The entry went on without another word of the Phantom. An entry without a date followed -

_There are whispers of an Opera Ghost… and I know they mean Erik. The stage hands notice him more than the managers; the ballerinas attribute any bump to him. Only once have I seen Erik's tricks myself…. And I am the only one to know the Ghost is actually a man. I should be thankful. He has coerced the managers into giving me a position as attendant. I am thankful for the extra money, but I am neither pleased with him nor am I proud of him. Erik will be like the extortionists in Dante's work if I am to believe the priest at church. I went to confession in the hopes of easing my mind on the matter, but I fear, Father could offer me no solace tonight. _

"Typical," Meg muttered. She remembered her mother going to church often in her younger years; then, as her ankle grew more painful, Madame Giry had refused to go. Meg wondered if her mother used the pain as an excuse… and that she had simply become disillusioned with the idea of redemption. Several entries thereafter lacked any mention of Erik until another line caught her eye - _Marguerite is old enough to join the troupe. She has made a friend of young Christine Daae. She sings well. Erik seems to think she has potential. _

Meg set the diary aside after glancing at the date. The date was mere days after Christine's arrival at the Opera House. She groaned into her flat pillow on the lumpy bed she once shared with her mother. She had hoped the diary would reveal more about Erik. Some clue about his past or personality. At least, Meg hoped, something about Erik's past life. Instead she had vague clues to her father's friendship with the man and how Erik had ended up at the Opera House. Her thoughts slowed as exhaustion took her into the land of dreams.

* * *

Along with the other stagehands, Dmitri watched the young ballerinas from the catwalk above the stage. He smiled letting his eyes drift from Anjelica's curvaceous form to young Cecile Jammes and then Marianne St. Michel. An older stagehand had taught him the trick to identify the girls by their hair color. As his eyes drifted to the dark features of Meg, he winced involuntarily.

A nudge at his elbow caught his attention. Chaput, an older boy by a year or more with dark hair and hazel eyes, gave him a quizzical look. Dmitri shrugged and pointed down at Meg. Chaput was new, having been hired to replace an older stagehand who died from the fever last autumn. He had proved himself capable to the older stagehands and his ability to tell a tale at the tavern had won him a place of respect with the younger stagehands. He had formed an easy friendship with Dmitri. He had even assisted the blond-haired Russian in his sexual escapades with one of Eleanor's more naïve girls in the workshop.

Chaput raised an eyebrow, but his eyes glided down to Marguerite Giry dancing upon the stage. He eyed her critically and nodded his approval. With a wave, he led Dmitri off of the catwalks to discuss the girl off stage and out of hearing.

"What about her?" Chaput asked quietly. Dmitri landed on his feet in the wings with a slight thump; Chaput lightly stepped down, soundlessly. Dmitri found it odd that Chaput never made a sound. "She is rather skinny for my tastes."

"Ah, don't let her thin and swarthy appearance deter you. Little Meg is sweeter than honey… when she likes you," Dmitri huffed before cringing again. "When she doesn't, beware her knee."

Chaput smiled devilishly. "Oh? I _like_ a girl with a little fight in her. They make for a good challenge."

"She will be a challenge for sure," the Russian admitted with a wave of his hand towards the stage. "She seems to be rising in the ranks as well. Already I heard some American is trying to sweep her off her feet."

"No matter." Chaput shrugged and his hazel eyes twinkled. "By chance, is she the dreaded Giry I have heard about from Bonnet and Deneil?"

"No, she's the _daughter_ of Madame Giry who passed last autumn," Dmitri explained. "That woman was a tyrant, but with her passing…" Dmitri let Chaput fill in the pieces with a grin. "Little Meg may need some comforting."

Chaput smiled like a fox at his friend. "You just want to give her a little payback, no?"

Dmitri scowled, and Chaput chuckled at having caught his friend out. "Ah, Dmitri… ," he began with the sly smile still tugging at his lips. "I am intrigued by your proposition… and by her. I'll consider it."

The younger stagehand with his sand-blond hair and blue eyes transformed his scowl to a hopeful grin. He sauntered off assuming Chaput would, in fact, pursue Little Meg and deal a romantic blow to her.

Chaput watched him leave the wings. The boy acted as if he owned the Opera House, which meant he could play with the ballet rats as he saw fit. Yet Chaput knew better. Only one monster _owned_ the Opera House… and he had a vague suspicion that Madameoiselle Giry was the key to find _him._


End file.
